


You Don't Choose Your Lot in Life

by accidentallyonpurpose



Series: Lot in life [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Bratting, Crime Scene, Dom John Watson, Dom Mycroft, Dom/sub, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gentle John, Gentle Mycroft, Hyperventilating, Jealous Mycroft, Kidlock, M/M, Mild Gore, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Mycroft, Protective John, Sherlock is a Brat, Slow Build, Spanking, Sub Lestrade, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Teenlock, Young Sherlock, but not a case fic, but really not a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4814288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidentallyonpurpose/pseuds/accidentallyonpurpose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were born, unbeknownst to them, as a submissive and a dominant respectively. When they each turn fourteen they are told they were part of a government experiment bent on making the world a better place with better human relations. This the story of them discovering their dynamic and finding out how to make their wy in a world of new doms and subs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock is told

**Author's Note:**

> This guy will be a multi-chapter fic composed of one-shots and vignettes. Hope you enjoy!

It all started when Sherlock turned fourteen. Well, it actually all started when Mycroft turned fourteen, but Sherlock was only nine at the time and was therefore oblivious to the change in his brother’s life.   
When Sherlock turned fourteen, he started noticing changes in himself. Predominantly, he suddenly wanted to please everyone around him. It started with small things, like being more willing to do the dishes when his mother asked or leaving his older brother alone when commanded. And every time he would accomplish a task, he would be thanked and praised. Not that he wasn’t praised before he turned fourteen, because he was, but now it sent a warm thrill through him every time, encouraging him to continue being accommodating in a way it hadn’t previously. The changes happened gradually over a few months and, on the date of his fourteenth birthday, Sherlock’s parents sat him down in their living room.   
They were perched on the love seat with Sherlock seated in a stuffed chair opposite them.   
“Son, there is something we must discuss,” Mummy Holmes started.  
“We’ve already had the puberty talk,” he reminded her snarkily.  
“Watch your tone,” his father warned from beside his mother.  
“Yes Father,” he answered meekly, ducking his head.   
“As I was saying,” his mother continued drily with a raised eyebrow “there is an important matter we must discuss with you.” Mummy took a fortifying breath.   
“Before I and your father were blessed with you and your brother, we were approached by the government and offered a chance to be part of an experiment. This experiment was designed to create a new generation, a better generation, a more peaceful generation. It was intended to create harmony between humans by genetically pre-disposing them to working better together. We decided to partake in the opportunity presented to us.” As scientists themselves, the Holmes’ had jumped at the chance to be part of such a ground-breaking experiment.   
“They hoped to create two types of people- those who were dominant and those who were submissive. In creating these two distinct types of people, they hoped that the population would be genetically predisposed to working together more amicably.” Sherlock felt his stomach sinking to his knees.   
“And so you had two children- one dominant, and one submissive,” he continued for his mother. She nodded in response. “And I’m the submissive, aren’t I?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Both his parents nodded in response this time. “And, what, I’m just supposed to find someone to boss me around while I clean the house and tell me I’m a good boy for the rest of my life?” Sherlock screeched, in full panic mode. Replaying his youth, he started making connections that previously had slipped his attention. “So that playgroup when we were young…?”  
“Other test subjects,” his father replied, nodding. “And the leaders of the groups were scientists that were monitoring your progress.”   
“That’s why I always had more chores than Mycroft,” Sherlock realized. “And why Mycroft has been more assertive the past couple years.” His parents nodded again, staying silent as he worked it out. “Why weren’t we told what we were earlier?”   
“To allow you to grow up and develop your own personalities, to become your own people.” Sherlock sat in stony silence.   
“This isn’t fair,” he finally spat out.  
“Don’t think of it as a bad thing,” his mother insisted. “Think of it as an opportunity to help ameliorate the functioning of society as a whole.”  
Sherlock was unimpressed and, with a thunderous expression darkening his features, he sprung up and raced to his room, slamming the door behind him. Throwing himself onto his bed, Sherlock stared at the ceiling before bringing his hands up to his mouth and falling into his Mind Palace, tears coursing slowly down his cheeks.   
A little while later Sherlock came to, realizing with a jolt that his brother was perched on the edge of his bed and was running his hand through his inky curls. Sherlock also noted with slight disgust that he was relaxing involuntarily into the soothing touch.  
“Get out,” he said, pushing Mycroft’s hand away from him with great effort and sitting up.  
“Please Sherlock, Mummy and Daddy are worried. It’s been two hours and you haven’t been responding to them.”  
“Yes well, they created this mess, didn’t they,” Sherlock said ungraciously.   
“They didn’t mean it to be a bad thing,” Mycroft reasoned. “And it doesn’t have to be. Look at me, I’ve known for five years now what we are, and it hasn’t affected me. I’m still the same person I always was.”  
“Well you aren’t a submissive, so you aren’t biologically built to obey everyone around you,” Sherlock sulked, glowering at Mycroft.   
“Neither are you,” Mycroft insisted. “Admittedly, you were engineered as a submissive, but submissive doesn’t mean blindly obedient. It means willingly giving yourself to someone and making them happy because it makes you happy. You don’t do anything that doesn’t make you happy, alright?” Mycroft ducked his head to meet his younger brother’s eyes.   
“Fine,” Sherlock said, his eyes flicking again to the side.   
“Look me in the eye,” Mycroft said forcefully. Reluctantly, Sherlock dragged his eyes upwards until they connected with Mycroft’s. “I promise I will do all I can to make sure you are happy, understand?” Mycroft’s hand slid to the back of Sherlock’s neck, keeping their eyes connected.  
“Yes, alright, Mycroft,” Sherlock ground out.   
“Now, will you come down for your birthday dinner? Mummy’s made your favorite.”  
Sherlock closed his eyes in defeat.  
“Yes,” he sighed, bowing his head.  
“Good,” Mycroft sighed, squeezing the back of Sherlock’s neck once before bringing his other arm around Sherlock, drawing him in for a hug.   
Sherlock let the hug last for a moment before pulling away. “Get off me,” he said without any real conviction.  
“I’ll see you downstairs,” Mycroft said with a nod to Sherlock, suddenly embarrassed at his display of affection. Sherlock didn’t answer, swinging his legs off the bed and staring at the floor until Mycroft left. Then he roughly rubbed his face with both hands and let out a bodily sigh.   
When he made his way downstairs a few minutes later he was met with the sight of the dining room table laden with all of his favorites, and his family gathered around the table.  
“Sherlock, come sit down,” his mother said gently, scampering over to him and dragging him by the hand to the head of the table, the place of honor.   
“Happy birthday, son.”  
“Thank you,” he said politely, still unhappy at his parents.  
“Here love dish up, don’t be shy,” his mother gushed, spooning out heaps of mashed potatoes onto Sherlock’s plate. Sherlock sat silently while his mother filled his plate.   
They ate in relative silence, the other three occupants of the table making odd small talk but not trying to draw Sherlock into the conversation. When they were finished eating, Mummy went to the kitchen and emerged with a chocolate cake, two candles shaped in a one and a four glowed merrily on top.  
“Make a wish, love,” Mummy murmured, setting the cake carefully down in front of Sherlock.  
I wish I wasn’t a submissive, Sherlock thought desperately, closing his eyes and blowing out the candles as hard as possible. The cake was quickly cut after that, and eaten efficiently. Sherlock soon went to bed, barring the door behind him.  
Needless to say, it was not one of Sherlock’s favorite birthdays.


	2. First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a gathering held for all the members of the experiment, with the goal of facilitating the finding of everyone's soulmate.

The press of bodies was excruciating. One hundred dominants and one hundred submissives, all of whom had been successfully coded to crave one another. This was the first gathering of all of them at one time. There had been smaller focus groups and endless meetings with doctors to monitor his hormone levels, as well as meetings with therapists to discuss how to deal with things unique to the situation, such as subdrop and subspace, but never a large gathering.   
Sherlock and Mycroft were tucked in the corner of the giant ballroom, holding their complementary beverages in front of them like shields. They were bent close to one another, deducing everyone else in the room and steadily dismissing potential mates.   
“Her mother left when she was ten, and the money coming from the experiment is the only thing that kept them afloat,” Mycroft deduced of the dark-haired female standing several feet away from them.  
“And her father is a drunk.”  
“A gambler, Sherlock. Look at the sleeve cuffs,” Mycroft corrected.  
“Of course.”  
“That means her sister is also off the table.” Mycroft pointed to an equally dark-haired woman approximately four years older.   
Sherlock hummed in agreement. This gathering was supposed to be some sort of party designed to find your eternal mate. Sherlock thought it was ridiculous that two hundred people between the ages o f eighteen and twenty-five were meant to find their soulmate among a selected sampling. The scientists had assured them that not everyone would find their soulmate in one night, and that there would be a line-up of similar socials held at later dates. Sherlock was determined to do all he could do to drive away any potential suitors. He didn’t need people or relationships to make him happy or complete; he was fine on his own, had always been fine on his own.   
Mycroft, although of a similar mind, had been approached by the scientists and offered a position in the British Government if he managed to find a mate. He was extremely interested in the position offered and therefore was determined to find someone tolerable tonight.   
“What about that one?” Sherlock asked. “She only has nine cats. I’m sure you could grow to love them all,” he added sarcastically.  
“Amusing, brother dear,” Mycroft drawled. “However, she is not interested in males.”  
“Well, I’m sure if you went over there and dominated her, her mind would change.”  
“That is not how this works and you know it, Sherlock. Stop being difficult.”  
“Make me.”  
“I won’t in public, but I can when we get home,” Mycroft offered ominously. Sherlock grumbled but didn’t make another comment.   
“Hi there,” a friendly looking dark haired boy sidled up beside them. “Mind if I join you here? I need a break.” Both Sherlock and Mycroft looked the boy up and down.  
“Submissive,” Sherlock started.  
“From the second wave of subjects, so approximately eighteen years old, graduated high school and looking at the police force as a career,” Mycroft continued.  
“Older brother, who is the dominant of the pair, is embarrassing himself somewhere on the dance floor,” Sherlock finished.  
“Oy!” the boy cried indignantly. “What the bloody hell?”  
“Were we wrong?” Sherlock asked with a raised brow.  
“Well, no,” the boy admitted, looking warily between the two of them. Draining his champagne glass, he held it up and declared “I’m for another. Maybe they’ll have pulled beer from somewhere, I could really do with a good pint right now. You boys want anything?”  
“No thank you,” Mycroft replied, eyes still focused on the boy. “We have sufficient replenishment.”  
“Alright. Maybe I’ll see you later.” Without waiting for a response, the boy walked away.  
“He wasn’t too terrible,” Sherlock commented after the boy had left.  
“Indeed.” Mycroft was flushed red when Sherlock glanced at him.   
“Maybe more than not terrible,” Sherlock teased.  
“A candidate, to be certain,” Mycroft admitted coolly. “But let us keep our options open.”  
The pair went back to gazing around the room, making comments and deductions to each other every once in a while.   
They were interrupted once more, this time by a girl with long blonde hair.  
“Hi there,” she said with a smile.  
“Dominant, failing all her uni classes, dating someone outside the experiment on the side, not worth your time,” Mycroft rattled off to Sherlock, completely ignoring the girl.  
“Excuse me?” She cried.   
“I’m not interested, please move on,” Sherlock re-iterated.  
“Weirdo,” she spat, stalking off.  
“How original,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “How long must we remain?”  
“They said we must stay until eleven,” Mycroft said, glancing at his watch. It was ten thirty, but half an hour felt like an eternity. Sherlock groaned, frustrated, and slammed his head back against the wall.   
“I’m so bored,” he whined.   
“As am I, but you don’t hear me whining about it.”   
Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms.   
“Would you like to step outside for a bit?” Mycroft suggested when Sherlock made no reply.  
“Are you asking because you just saw that submissive police officer wannabe go outside?” Sherlock asked pointedly.  
“Would you like to go outside or not?” Mycroft snipped back.  
“Why not, it will make it easier to avoid all the oppressive doms in here,” Sherlock sighed. Dropping their glasses on one of the many tables scattered about, they exited through a set of giant doors and onto the terrace lit by twinkling fairy lights.  
“Romantic,” Sherlock commented drily, taking in the under lit fountains happily burbling and the carefully hidden nooks interspersed throughout.  
“Yes well, we’re not really here for the décor,” Mycroft said, glancing around distractedly. “I believe I’m going to wander over that way for a while,” Mycroft indicated a shadow-shrouded corner that a dark form had just disappeared into.  
“Whatever, Mycroft.”  
“Aren’t you always getting annoyed at my prying? Here’s your chance to fend for yourself. I’ll find you later,” Mycroft promised.  
Sherlock didn’t respond, staring resolutely at the people around him. Mycroft nodded once and wandered away, not looking back.  
“Prick,” Sherlock muttered under his breath. “Doesn’t even really want to find a mate, for Christ’s sake.”  
“What was that?” a voice sounded from Sherlock’s side. Sherlock ran his eyes up and down the new-comer, soaking in all the information found on the blond-haired boy.   
“Dominant, going to uni for medicine, father is a drunk,” Sherlock quickly deduced. “From the second wave of the experiment, same as me, older brother also a drunk probably passed out under a table somewhere. Sports injury in the left shoulder, likely football or rugby.”   
The boy stood with his mouth half open before clicking it shut. “That was amazing.”  
“Really? That’s not what people usually say.”  
“And what do they usually say, then?”  
“Piss off.” They took a moment to chuckle. “So I got it all right?” Sherlock looked smug.   
“Not quite,” the boy admitted. “She’s my older sister, although she probably is under a table right now.”   
“There’s always something,” Sherlock mumbled.   
“I’m John,” the boy said, holding out his hand. “John Watson.”  
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock grabbed John’s warm hand in his, noting absently how well his long fingers fit between John’s.  
“Nice to meet you.” John beamed. “Do you mind if I ask you a little bit about yourself?”  
“I am eighteen, my interests are the violin, chemistry and murder mysteries. Sometimes I go for days on end without speaking. I also do not agree with this experiment we’ve all been forced into and don’t believe that good relationships can be chemically engineered.” Sherlock smiled coldly.  
John took a moment to reply. “Although I don’t agree with them forcing us all into this experiment, I do think we should all try to make the best of it as best we can. I mean what’s done is done, I suppose.”  
“That’s easy for you to say, you aren’t reduced to an attention-seeking, obedient foot-kisser.”  
“Maybe not, but doms definitely still need the attention, it’s just a different kind. We crave the attention and trust of our subs the way you want to give us that submission. And personally, I would be obedient to anything my sub asked, but that’s just basic human decency. And someone kissing my foot would be a little strange, frankly.”  
Sherlock, much as he was loathe to admit, was impressed and almost convinced.   
“You say that now,” he said coolly, crossing his arms and looking down at John.   
“No, I pretty much say that all the time,” John rebutted. They stood for a moment in awkward silence. “Would you like to get a drink with me?”  
Sherlock considered the blonde for a moment. “Will you be trying to dominate me while we acquire said drink?”  
“No, of course not. I’ll just be getting to know you.” John sounded slightly annoyed.  
Sherlock, noticing movement off to his side, glanced over and spotted Mycroft who was pointing at his watch.  
“Ah, it appears it is time for me to go,” Sherlock said, inclining his head towards Mycroft. John glanced the way Sherlock indicated. Without another word Sherlock turned and followed Mycroft to the car, dodging elbows and flailing hands as they wove through the gathered dominants and submissives.  
“Successful?” Sherlock asked after they were securely in the back of their car.  
“Indeed,” Mycroft answered, thumbs tapping away at the cell phone he had pulled out of his pocket.  
“Hm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, kudos and comment at your leisure!


	3. Second Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock meet again and talk a little more, and Sherlock starts to be swayed. Meanwhile, Greg and Mycroft see each other for the second time in person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely notes on the chapters :D Hope you enjoy :)

Sherlock stood facing the mirror by the front door, adjusting his tie. With the blessing of both their parents and the experiment leaders, the brothers had moved into their own flat as soon as Sherlock turned eighteen. Although they still used their parent’s driver and housekeeper, they were functionally independent, living off their inheritance and Mycroft’s paycheck.

“A tie, Sherlock? A bit of overkill, isn’t it?” Mycroft goaded.

“At least I’m not in a three-piece suit,” Sherlock bit back, giving Mycroft a once-over in the reflection of the mirror.

“Dress to impress, brother.”

Sherlock scoffed but didn’t answer, looking at himself in the mirror once more before nodding and turning. “Ready to go?”

“Yes, let us depart.” Mycroft led the way, Sherlock following in his footsteps. They climbed into the black car waiting for them, settling in for the short car ride.

It had been one month since the first gathering and in the meantime Mycroft had been diligently texting Greg, although they hadn’t been able to see each other during that time. Although Mycroft wasn’t outwardly nervous, an inner turmoil was filling him. It all depended on this moment- he had already told the organizers of the experiment that he had found a sub and they were ready to let him take the position in the government, as long as he could prove he and Greg were together.

The brothers didn’t talk during the car ride, both lost in thought and trying their best not to fidget. When they finally pulled up to the building, Sherlock reflexively let Mycroft get out first before following. They entered the building and were met by the sight of other young adults crowded into a room, similar to the last time. This time, however, there were less of them, around one hundred and twenty where last time there was two hundred.

“Some people move quickly,” Sherlock commented, grimacing at the thought of meeting someone once and dedicating oneself to them for the rest of their lives. Mycroft didn’t comment, opting to look at his phone instead.

 _Are you here?_ The message pinged on his phone.

 _Yes. –MH_ he quickly replied.

_Where?_

_Just arrived. Near the door. –MH_

_Coming._

Mycroft smiled down at his phone, pleased that Greg was seeking him out.

“Are you going to go find your boyfriend?” Sherlock smirked as he watched Mycroft grin at his phone.

“He’s coming to find me, actually.”

“Ah, making your sub do all the work. I see.” Sherlock avoided making eye contact with Mycroft.

“Sherlock, you must get over your aversion to the dom sub dynamic. Obviously, don’t settle for someone who you think will boss you around and disrespect you. It’s literally in your genes, and it’s something you’re going to have to accept. But I thought that was a given, dear brother, and didn’t need to be said out loud. Clearly I was wrong.” Mycroft looked at Sherlock with a mixture of concern and what Sherlock hesitated to call affection. He was equal parts touched and annoyed at the emotions playing over his brother’s face, and silently thanked the lord when Greg walked up.

“Hey,” he said with a charming smile, handing Mycroft a beer.

“Beer, Gregory, really?” Mycroft asked. Greg’s smile dimmed slightly.

“Sorry, I didn’t know what you liked. Did you want me to get something else?”

“No, no, this is fine,” Mycroft allowed. “Although for future reference, I prefer single malt whiskey or a good cabernet sauvignon.”

“Ah, the fancy stuff. I should’ve expected that from someone as posh as you. My apologies.”

“No need,” Mycroft waved off the apology. “We’re still learning about each other, obviously.”

“Something I would like to keep doing,” Greg replied, a smile lighting his features once more. “I saw some seats somewhere around here, care to find them?”

“I would be delighted.” Mycroft turned to Sherlock. “I have my phone on me if you need a quick extraction from a sticky situation, otherwise I’ll see you at eleven thirty.”

“Fine. Have fun with your boyfriend,” Sherlock sneered. Mycroft rolled his eyes before scanning the room, finding the seating area Greg had been referring to. It was a collection of comfortable single and double chairs arranged in pairs and small groups around low-set tables. Mycroft took the lead once again, letting Greg fall behind him by a few steps.

“Please, have a seat,” Mycroft said once they reached the area, motioning to one of the many squishy armchairs gathered in a corner.

“Thanks,” Greg put his drink down on the table in front of the chair. Mycroft sat as well after making sure that there was no room for any other chairs around their table. He did not want to share Gregory with anyone. ”So, you’ve been pretty busy, huh?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft answered with a small smile. “I’m training for a minor government position and it has kept me ridiculously busy.”

“I hear ya, I finished training at New Scotland Yard last year and it was crazy.” Greg took a pull of his beer. “So, what’s the illustrious government position you’re training for?”

Mycroft felt his back go up. “Nothing really, just an office job. Boring beyond belief.”

Greg squinted. “Ah, so one of those you-could-tell-me-but-you’d-have-to-kill-me positions, hey?” His grin stretched teasingly.

Mycroft let a small chuckle escape past his lips. “Something like that, yes. What else do you like to do, when you’re not working at New Scotland Yard?”

“I play football recreationally with some of the lads, and I like a good book every now and again. You?” Mycroft was momentarily distracted by the idea of Greg in tight shorts running around on a field and had to physically shake himself before answering the question.

“I enjoy reading as well. I also play piano and cello on occasion.”

“Do you always speak so poshly?”

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked, one eyebrow shooting up.

“I dunno, there’s just a certain… air about you. Very upper crust. I like it.”

“Well, this is how I have always spoken my entire life, and how I will continue to speak.”

“I look forward to it,” Greg chuckled. Then he turned serious. “That is what you’re looking for here, isn’t it? Exclusivity? A future, whatever it may look like?” Mycroft admired Gregory’s straightforward attitude.

“It is,” he conceded with a tilt of his head. “I find you quite attractive, Gregory.”

“Likewise,” Greg answered back. “You wanna show me how attractive you find me?”

Mycroft audibly gulped, momentarily at a loss. He was usually the one in control, and was a little off put by Gregory’s directness. “Wh- I- um, of course I would. Now?”

“Just a little kiss,” Greg coaxed playfully.

“Alright,” Mycroft said, in control of the situation once more. Looking around, he saw only one other group at another table a few feet away and glared at them until he was sure they weren’t staring. Satisfied, he turned back to Greg, whose pupils had blown wide. “Jealous type, huh?” he asked, voice a little rough.

“So it would seem.”

“We may have to talk about that later,” Greg replied. Mycroft hummed in agreement and, without any warning, cupped his hand around the back of Greg’s neck.

“Alright?” he asked.

“Just do it already,” Greg said a little breathlessly. Without further ado, Mycroft brought Greg’s lips gently to his and held them there, still for a moment. Then Greg started to move, first his lips against Mycroft’s, and then his hand curling into the lapel of Mycroft’s suit jacket. It was like all Mycroft’s nerve endings had come alive and were focused on the two points of contact he had with Greg. He leaned out of his chair, pushing Greg farther into his and putting himself over top of Greg. They pulled away after a minute, both catching their breath. Greg’s pupils were blown wide. “We’re lucky to have found a compatible partner in such a short range of people,” he said between pants.

“Yes, one would say it is impossible.” Mycroft was proud to note that his voice only wavered slightly. “Although, I suppose the genetic modification helps with that.”

“Yeah,” Greg answered, leaning once more towards Mycroft.

“Wait,” Mycroft breathed, looking to the side and narrowing his eyes at a pair of dominants that had stopped on the outskirts of the gathered furniture. They stared Mycroft down for a minute before huffing and turning away. “Now, where were we?”

“That’s kind of hot and sort of terrifying,” Greg admitted.

“Would you like to talk about it now?” Mycroft asked around a sigh.

“Later, please.”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” Mycroft dragged Greg back to him, towering over Greg once more. He rested one knee beside Greg’s thigh on the chair, caging him in.

“Yeah, this is going to work out just fine,” Greg sighed. “But we should probably talk a little more before getting too lost in,” here he gestured between the two of them, “this.”

 

Meanwhile, Sherlock had found himself a bit of trouble. After Mycroft had abandoned him, he had stood around before heading to the bar. He figured if he had to endure being around this many hormonal people, he may as well do it with the assistance of alcohol.

“Whiskey, neat,” he said to the bartender.

“There you go,” the burly man slid the glass across the counter.

“Thanks,” Sherlock flashed a smile before scooping up the glass and wandering away. He situated himself in a corner, hoping to keep his back protected. Lifting the glass to his lips, Sherlock let the liquid tip past and heat it’s way down his throat and into his stomach. A sigh escaped as he pulled out his phone and fiddled around on it, hoping not to draw attention to himself. Thus he was caught by surprise when a throat cleared beside him.

“Well aren’t you a tall drink of water?” the young man standing across from him said.

“No.”

“What?” The man blinked.

“Not. Interested.”

“You don’t even know me,” the man spluttered.

“I know you have a premature ejaculation problem,” Sherlock started. “And that you cry every time your mother leaves the house for an extended period of time. Also your taste in beer is atrocious,” Sherlock nodded to the offending beer in the other man’s hand.

“Whatever, bastard,” the man glared at him before stalking away.

“Bye bye,” Sherlock said sarcastically at his retreating form. Inwardly he exalted at having scared off a dom by himself. Taking a celebratory sip from his glass, Sherlock let it linger for a moment longer than strictly necessary.

“That’s a pretty mouth,” he heard from beside him. His eyes darted quickly to the side, quickly taking in the tall, leggy brunette now standing beside him.

“Thank you,” he said, carefully looking at the woman beside him.

“Like what you see?”

“I’m gay.”

“Never mind then.” With a small smile, she left Sherlock alone. Well, that was shockingly easy. Sherlock knocked back the rest of his drink and made his way to the bar for another.

“Whiskey again?” the bartender asked.

“Please.” Sherlock slid the glass across the counter. He quickly received his drink and turned around, scanning the room for the least populated area. Spying a spot across the room, Sherlock took another fortifying sip of his whiskey and started towards the spot. He made his way across the room, weaving his way through small knots of people. As he was breaking through the last wall of bodies, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and stopped him in his tracks. Sherlock looked at the hand on his shoulder and followed it up to its owner, a burly bull of a man.

“May I help you?” One eyebrow shot up.

“Don’t take that tone with me,” the man who belonged to the hand said, voice low. He was taller than Sherlock by a couple of inches and built more broadly. A man and a woman stood behind him, both leering at Sherlock.

“Take your hand off me.”

“Watcha gonna do about it?” The man put pressure on Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to drag him closer. “Come on, you know you want it.”

“I don’t want anything from a manic depressive pedophile. Not to mention you’re heterosexual, why would you want anything from me?” The man’s eyes flickered quickly to the side. “Ah. I see. A dare, is it?” Sherlock sneered.

“You seem like the type to need a strong hand,” the woman behind him said. “The kind who needs to be… shown… how to obey.”

Sherlock grimaced. “No, thank you.” Disgust coloured his tone. The woman came around from behind her friend, cornering Sherlock in on his one side.

“I bet that ass could use a good spanking,” the other one said, coming around to Sherlock’s other side.

“You have five seconds to step away,” Sherlock said.

“Or what?” the first man said, stepping closer into Sherlock’s space.

“Hey, back off!” Sherlock heard from behind him. Three sets of eyes snapped to someone behind Sherlock. While they were distracted, Sherlock stepped on the woman’s foot and pushed her away. Taking a step back, Sherlock noticed the blonde boy from the other night, John as he recalled, grabbing the second man by the shoulder and shoving him away. Taking a step back, John bumped into Sherlock. “Sorry,” he said, reaching out a hand to steady Sherlock. “You three,” he said, facing the others and keeping his hand on Sherlock’s arm, “leave. I don’t want to see you around us again.” He glared at them from beneath furrowed eyebrows.

“Who’d want a freak like him anyway?” the woman sneered, turning on her heel and leaving. The other two quickly followed after shooting murderous looks at Sherlock.

“I don’t need protecting,” Sherlock said venomously, yanking his hand out of John’s grip.

“Yeah, well three against one isn’t fair odds for anyone,” John answered. “I’m John. We met briefly last time?”

“Yes, I remember.” Sherlock smiled coolly. “Why did you come to my rescue just now? Do you think I’m some damsel who needs saving?”

John looked confused and a little hurt. “No, of course not. Like I said a minute ago, those three were being asses and needed to be told.”

“I had the situation handled.”

“I have no doubt. It’s just what I do.” Here John paused, carefully choosing his words. “For everyone and anyone. It’s what I’ve been genetically engineered to do, I suppose.”

“Protect the weak?” Sherlock snorted.

“No,” John answered, frustrated. “Just to protect. The weak, the strong, anyone who needs help.”

Sherlock considered him for a moment. “You’ll make an alright doctor. Good in high-pressure situations. The addiction to danger though, that may make the days of being a family doctor monotonous.”

“I’m thinking of being a surgeon, actually.”

“Yes, that’ll suit you just fine,” Sherlock nodded sagely.

“I need a drink,” John huffed after a minute. “You want anything?”

“I’ve still got mine,” Sherlock said, displaying his full drink. “Didn’t spill a drop.”

“Impressive,” John nodded. “Will you come with me to the bar?”

Sherlock considered. On the one hand, John was the most bearable dom he had met so far and, if he was being perfectly honest with himself, Sherlock was interested. This dom, this human being, was an enigma; at the same time caring, compassionate, and a thrill-seeker.

“Alright.”

John took the lead, quickly getting a beer from the bar and steering Sherlock towards the outdoor terrace. “It’s a nice night, if you don’t mind going outside,” John said.

“Sure, why not,” Sherlock replied. They found a quiet bench off to the side of the terrace and sat down, at least a foot of space between them. John took a pull from his beer and tipped his head back. The two sat in a fragile silence, only disrupted by the chirp of crickets and the muffled voices from inside.

“I love the stars,” John said quietly after a moment, gently breaking the silence. Sherlock looked over at him.

“Why?”

“Because they’re beautiful,” John answered softly. “And they’re so far away, but we can still see them.”

“You realize some of them have probably already died?”

“And yet, we can still see them. That’s pretty cool, huh?” John tilted his head so that he could look at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

“I suppose,” Sherlock allowed. John looked back towards the sky.

“You said you like violin last time. Do you play much?”

“All the time. It helps me to clear my mind and focus.”

John nodded. “You any good?”

“I’m very good.”

John smiled at that. “I believe it. I played clarinet in primary school. I was pretty lousy.”

“I believe it,” Sherlock answered back with a tentative smile. John snorted softly.

“Why do you do that guessing thing whenever you meet people?” he said, finally looking at Sherlock straight on.

“It’s not a ‘guessing thing’, it’s deductions,” Sherlock corrected sharply. “And it’s something me and my brother have always done. Best to know everything about a person before wasting time becoming acquainted and finding out they’re not worth your time.”

“Sorry,” John replied. “It’s quite amazing, honestly.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Why, has no one ever told you that?”

“No, generally people tell me to piss off.”

John laughed for real this time, letting the laughter roll into the air to be mixed with Sherlock’s quiet baritone. “People are assholes,” John said on the end of a chuckle. Sherlock hummed his agreement. They sat in comfortable silence once more, John inching a little closer to Sherlock. Slowly but surely, John’s arm ended up behind Sherlock with John leaning less than a breath away from Sherlock. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock found himself relaxing, a feeling of comfort and protectiveness slowly working it’s way through him.

The silence was broken when Sherlock’s phone pinged with an incoming message. He took his phone out of his pocket and glanced at it, noticing it was eleven thirty.

_Where are you? –MH_

_The terrace. –SH_

_Greg and I are on our way. –MH_

“My brother is coming to collect me,” Sherlock said on the end of a put-upon sigh.

“Do you need to go with him? I could give you a ride home.”

Sherlock peered at John. “As much as I’m sure your dominant side would like to see me home yourself, my brother is also a dominant and very much holds that fact above my head, so you need not worry.”

“Does he abuse you?” John asked seriously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, of course not, don’t be silly. He’s just very controlling. About everything.”

“Ah, typical older sibling then.”

“Quite, but multiplied by about ten.”

John chuckled a bit. “Well, before you go, would you mind taking my number? So that maybe we can text and meet up outside of these gatherings? Only if you want to, of course.”

Sherlock let his eyes run over John once more, but could detect no lie or deceit, and offered up his phone. “Here, put your number in my phone and I’ll send you a message.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” John took Sherlock’s phone and stared at it for a minute. “Um, maybe I’ll get you to punch in my number.”

Sherlock smiled. “Just give me your phone,” he said suppressing a chuckle. John smiled, handing his older model phone over and letting Sherlock punch his number into it. “There you go,” he said, handing the old phone back.

“Thanks Sherlock, that’s really great.” Sherlock tried not to enjoy the warm glow that started in the pit of his stomach and grew to the tips of his fingers and toes at the words of praise. They were interrupted once more when Mycroft and Greg strolled up to them hand in hand.

“Brother,” Sherlock greeted.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft nodded back. “I haven’t formally introduced you yet. Sherlock, meet Gregory Lestrade. Greg, this is my brother Sherlock.”

Greg held out his hand to Sherlock. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hello.” Sherlock let the deductions fly through his brain fast and furious as they shook hands, and could discern nothing wrong with this sub.

“And who’s this, brother?” Mycroft asked after Sherlock and Greg were done shaking hands.

“This is John. John, this is my brother Mycroft and his soon-to-be-husband Greg.”

Greg went a little pale. “Well, I don’t know about husband,” he spluttered.

“Please,” Sherlock said. “You are both hoping for marriage, don’t be absurd.”

“Tactful as always, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a pained expression.

Greg shook his head and squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “Don’t worry about it, he’s not wrong.”

“It’s time for us to go, regardless,” Mycroft informed the group. They walked as a group to the front of the building where the Holmes’ car was waiting.

“I’ll text you and we can set up another date,” Mycroft murmured to Greg, taking both his hands and leaning in close. Gently he pressed their lips together, relishing in the feel of Greg melting against him and feeling Greg’s hands tightening in his own. “Goodnight,” Mycroft whispered against Greg’s lips when they pulled away.

“Goodnight,” Greg mumbled back. “Thanks for a great time.”

“Likewise. You were extraordinary. Remember to drink water and take an ibuprofen tonight, you had quite a bit to drink.”

Greg grinned at Mycroft. “Yes, sir,” he said, only half teasing. A shudder went through Mycroft at the words and he let out a soft huff of breath.

“Goodnight, Greg,” he said once again.

“Night.”

“Well, that is something I’d rather never experience ever again. In fact, I may need to burn my eyes out.”

“Stop being a drama queen and get in the car,” Mycroft said with a roll of his eyes.

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock said before getting in the car.

“Goodnight! I had fun.”

“Yes, me too,” Sherlock said around Mycroft as he got in the car and closed the door.

“Things are going well for you then?” Sherlock teased.

“I could ask you the same,” Mycroft said by way of response.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock answered, distracted by the message that had pinged on his phone.

_It was great getting to talk to you, Sherlock. You free next week?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, kudos and comment as you see fit :) I'll probably be slowing down on posts as life picks up speed, but worry not; this fic will not be forgotten.


	4. Progression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock go to their parents for dinner, where Mycroft makes an announcement. Then, Sherlock and John go on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Real life is starting to kick me in the pants, and I can safely say that updates will be spotty at best for the next six weeks, as I'm in rehearsals for a show six nights a week on top of school. I promise I won't give up on it though, and don't you give up on it either!

Sherlock found himself once again in front of the mirror, this time trying to tousle his hair in that particular way that would irk his mother. He and Mycroft were preparing to leave for their weekly dinner with their parents. Every Friday, the brothers would make the drive from their downtown flat to their parents’ house on the outskirts of the city in order to satisfy their mother’s constant need to see them.

“Ready, brother?” Mycroft asked, picking up his umbrella.

“If I must be,” Sherlock responded.

Mycroft hummed and led the way, holding the door open for Sherlock and following him down the stairs. Mycroft slid into the car first as usual, Sherlock following behind and slamming the door shut.

“You and Gregory are getting along well,” Sherlock observed after a moment of quiet.

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed, looking intently at his nails.

“Gonna get married?” Sherlock teased, only half joking.

“We have not discussed it,” Mycroft dismissed, meeting Sherlock’s eyes for a second before glancing out the window.

“How is John?” Mycroft rebutted, his eyes running over Sherlock once more.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock sniffed haughtily.

“Judging by the small stain on your pant leg and the state of your right cuff, I would say you know exactly what I mean.” Sherlock squinted at Mycroft. It was true he and John had been texting consistently since the night of the party, but they hadn’t been able to meet up yet.

“Whatever,” Sherlock grumbled, slouching down in his seat. Jus then his phone dinged, alerting him of a new text.

_Whatcha up to?_

Sherlock scoffed.

 _What John, can you not put in the effort required to formulate three separate words? –SH_ He didn’t have to wait long for a response.

_Sorry. What is his Royal Highness up to today? ;P_

_Really, John? Smiley faces? Have we stooped so low? –SH_

_I don’t know what you mean. All I see is a face with a tongue sticking out. No smiles here. All serious business and winks and tongues. But really, what are you doing today? Meeting up with some Dominant I’m going to have to beat up?_

Sherlock felt his heart rate pick up slightly. The idea of John beating someone else up for him had a disgustingly saccharine affect on him.

 

_I have a dinner with my parents. Dull, really. We are arriving now, so I must sign off. I’ll talk to you later. -SH_

They had indeed pulled up to the front of the house. As Sherlock was exiting the car, he got one more text.

_Good luck, I’ll ttyl ;P_

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes before putting his phone back in his pocket and climbing the stairs behind Mycroft to their parents’ front door. Mycroft rang the doorbell and moments later the door swung open. Wafting out of the house was the succulent smell of roast beef and potatoes, one of Sherlock’s favourite meals and one of the few his mother knew he would actually finish.

“My boys,” their mother Violet crowed, cupping the sides of both their faces. “Come in, come in.” She let the hand cupping Sherlock’s cheek wander to his hair, idly grasping a curl here or there and trying to place them in some semblance of an order.

“It’s been a week, mother, not a century,” Sherlock groused as they entered the house, leaving their coats in the hall closet and proceeding to the living room.

“Hello boys,” their father greeted from his perch on his comfortable leather chair.

“Father,” Mycroft greeted.

 

“Hello,” Sherlock added. “Dinner’s just about ready,” their mother informed them as she entered the room.

“Why don’t you all come to the dining room.” The brothers preceded their father, taking their usual seats at the dining room table.

“So,” Violet started once the last dish had been set on the table. “What’s new?” She took a heaping scooped of mashed potatoes and dumped it on Sherlock’s plate.

“I have an announcement to make, actually,” Mycroft said, absentmindedly forking a piece of roast onto his plate. Putting down his fork, he straightened and re-straightened the napkin in his lap. “Gregory and I are moving in together,” he said, glancing up.

Their mother squealed. “Oh my goodness,” she cried, clasping her hands to her chest. “You’re going to move in together! Oh Mikey, that’s wonderful!”

“Please mother,” Mycroft winced, “not so shrill. But yes. It is going well between us.”

“Oh, what great news,” she sighed. “Now, you’ve told us a little bit about him, but tell us more.”

“He is training to be a police officer at New Scotland Yard,” Mycroft said. “He comes from a family of French bakers. His favorite color is green.”

“And is he nice, Mikey? Be honest now.”

“Yes, of course he is, mother,” Mycroft scoffed.

“Good. Isn’t that good, Sieger?”

“Yes son, we’re very proud,” Sieger smiled at his son.

“What about you, Sherlock?” Violet asked of her youngest son.

“What about me, mother?”

“Don’t be smart,” Sieger warned.

“Yes father.”

“Have you found a Dominant yet to suit your tastes?”

Sherlock found he could not lie. “I have been texting one,” he admitted. “We seem to be getting along. Only time will tell I suppose.”

“What’s his name?” Violet pried.

“John,” Sherlock answered shortly.

“Well that’s nice, dear. Let us know if anything comes of it.”

“Yes mother.” By this time they had all finished their dinner.

“Well, I believe it’s time for us to go,” Mycroft said, standing. Sherlock followed suit, eager to be out of the line of fire.

“Oh, but you just got here!”

“Yes, well, Gregory and I are going looking at flats early tomorrow morning and I would like to be well rested.”

“You don’t fool me, Mycroft Holmes, I know you don’t sleep nearly as much as you should. But I’ll let you boys go early just this once. Take some cake for the drive home,” she instructed.

“If you insist.” The boys went to get their coats on as their mother packed up dessert.

“There you go,” she said, handing the Tupperware container to Mycroft with a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh look,” Sherlock said. “Your favourite.”

“No it’s not,” Mycroft answered, looking confused.

“Oh really? I thought anything sugar-filled and fattening was your favourite,” Sherlock said snarkily.

“Hilarious, brother,” Mycroft answered back with a small roll of his eyes.

“Sherlock, don’t be mean,” Violet chided her son as she pecked him on the cheek. “We’ll see you next week.” Their father waved at them from behind their mother.

“Goodbye,” Sherlock called over his shoulder as he skipped down the stairs and to the car waiting for them.

“Goodbye, Mummy,” Mycroft said. “Thank you for the cake.”

“Anytime, dear.” Sherlock was already waiting in the car by the time Mycroft got in.

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“For getting us out of there so fast.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose that was somewhat admirable.” Sherlock sat in silence for a second. “So. You’re finding a new flat? With Gregory?” Sherlock looked at Mycroft out of the corner of his eyes and could feel Mycroft’s boring holes into the top of his head.

“Yes,” Mycroft said softly. “In order to get the position in the government-“

“I understand,” Sherlock interrupted. “Anything to protect your precious job.”

“We won’t be moving right away,” Mycroft said after a minute. “The fact that we’re looking is good enough for them to give me the job. I won’t be leaving for a while yet. Enough time for you to get annoyed by me, for sure.”

“More annoyed than I already am? I hardly think that’s possible.” Sherlock felt a small half-smile creep onto his face.

“Charming, brother,” Mycroft chuckled.

“If you do find somewhere though… Will I have to move back with Mummy and Daddy?” Sherlock asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

“I think we can make a plea for your independence, if it comes to it,” Mycroft said confidently. “And really, you could move in with Gregory and I, if it came down to it.”

“Move in with you during your honeymoon phase? No thank you.”

“Well, it’s an option, regardless,” Mycroft said. “I won’t leave you, Sherlock. I’ve always been looking out for you, and location won’t change that.”

Sherlock hummed unconvincedly, but didn’t say anything. Sherlock looked outside and realized they were sitting outside the flat. “How long have we been sitting here?”

“A couple of minutes,” Mycroft admitted. “Let us go inside.”

They exited the vehicle, going up to their flat. “I am going to do some work,” Mycroft said as he hung up his jacket, scooping up his laptop and carrying it to his room.

“Alright,” Sherlock replied, flopping onto his back on the sofa. Holding his phone above his head, he typed out a message.

_Just got home. What are you up to? –SH_

_Not much, just finished watching the match. You?_

_Talking to you. –SH_

_Want something more to do?_

_What did you have in mind? –SH_

_A date? I mean, don’t get me wrong I’ve greatly enjoyed our texting, but I wouldn’t mind seeing you in person again._

Sherlock blinked, surprised for a moment.

 _Sure, -SH_ he texted back after a moment, craning his neck to look at his brother’s door.

“I’m going on a date,” he called to the upside down closed door.

“Oh?” came Mycroft’s muffled reply.

“Yes, right now.” Sherlock heard Mycroft’s fingers still on the keys of his computer, and then his footsteps nearing his door. It swung open.

“Right now? With whom?”

Sherlock stared at his brother’s upside down figure. “With John of course. Who else?”

“Of course,” Mycroft answered. “Well, since I’ve met him I’ll allow you to go out with him, but you must be home by 12:30 at the latest.”

“Like you could stop me,” Sherlock scoffed, pushing himself into an upright position.

“Try me, brother.”

“No thanks,” Sherlock said, standing once more and moving to look out the window.

 _The address is 221B Baker Street. –SH_ he typed out.

_Be right there. Give me ten minutes._

Sherlock pocketed his phone and picked up the violin that was resting in its open case. Placing it under his chin he slowly dragged the bow across the strings, allowing the low notes to guide his thoughts.

Falling into his Mind Palace, he wandered down hallways until he came across a new door, covered in a fresh coat of white paint with a bronze nameplate that read “John Watson” on it. Turning the matching brass doorknob, he entered the room. It was sparse, an oatmeal-coloured carpet covering the floor and the walls a plain comforting blue. There was one wooden bookcase that housed a medical textbook, a rugby ball and a half-consumed bottle of beer. In the far corner there was also a sturdy wooden desk that matched the bookshelf but was currently empty. Sherlock stood in the doorway and took a deep breath, smelling the slightly musky scent of worn jumpers and the sweet smell of almonds. It was a scent that was uniquely John and suited the room perfectly.

“Sherlock,” he heard John’s voice dimly, but didn’t notice any speakers in the room that could be the source of the voice. “Sherlock?” he heard again. Slowly he came out of his Mind Palace, the notes he was absently playing on the violin petering out. He opened his eyes.

“Hello John. Mrs. Hudson let you in, I assume?”

“Yeah, then Mycroft gave me a lecture about having you home by midnight and swooped up to his room. What were you playing there?”

Sherlock wracked his brains for a moment. “Chopin Nocturne Number 2.”

“It was beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Ready to go?”

“Yes, one moment.” Sherlock flounced to the coat stand and slung his Belstaff onto his shoulders, his blue scarf wrapping around his neck. “Alright, let’s go.”

“It’s quite warm outside,” John warned. Sherlock merely shrugged.

“Out we go, then.”

They pounded down the stairs and out the door before coming to a halt.

“So where are we going?” John asked.

“Aren’t you the dominant one? Shouldn’t you decide?” Sherlock asked drily.

“And aren’t you the one who’s against all this dynamic nonsense?”

“Yes, well…” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, I don’t know what normal people do anyway.” He was studiously avoiding eye contact, squinting at the darkening sky.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, I do enjoy that.”

“I know a great place a couple blocks away. Follow me.” John took off down the street, Sherlock falling easily into step beside him. They walked in amiable silence for about a block, Sherlock with his hands tucked comfortably in his pockets and John letting his arms swing free. As they were reaching the second intersection they noticed flashing lights up ahead. “What’s that?” John asked as they neared the lights.

“Crime scene, looks like,” Sherlock answered. “Let’s go take a look.”

“What? No, we can’t do that. Isn’t it illegal or something?”

“Not as long as we stay behind the yellow tape.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him forward as close to the yellow tape as they could get.

What met them was a gruesome sight. A middle-aged white man was splayed spread-eagled on the pavement, arms severed from his torso. Blood pooled under and around the body.

“Murder, obviously,” Sherlock murmured to John. “Male, mid to late forties, worked as a pet groomer. Dating three separate women, one serious and two on the side. Recently divorced. Had a hamster, probably his girlfriend's. No children.” They had drawn the attention of one of the police officers, who made his way over to them.

“Can we help you lads?” The man asked. He was in his late thirties, a receding hairline haloing the crown of his head. A bulbous nose stood out from wide, kind eyes buried under bushy brows.

“No thanks,” John piped.

“You’re wrong about the killer,” Sherlock said. “It’s not his brother, it’s one of his lovers.”

“Pardon?” the police officer sputtered.

“It is evident by the lipstick on his collar, the different cat hairs on his pants and the stain on his left knee.”

“Explain.”

“The lipstick on his collar is from his lover, right before he died. Clearly seducing him, getting him into an alley for ease of killing him. There are hairs from two different kinds of cats, two breeds that generally don’t get along. Two different households that he visits. There’s a significant amount more of one, so he lives with one. There’s also a hamster in that household. One cat belongs to his girlfriend, and one to one of his lovers. How do I know it’s two lovers and not one? A woman wearing that shade of lipstick wouldn’t own a cat. Three women, then. And the stain on his left knee. Clearly, he went down on one knee tonight. I think he was proposing to his girlfriend. The lover, jealous, kills him in a fit of rage. Crime of passion. Boring.” Sherlock shrugged.

“How old are you, kid?” the man asked.

“Eighteen.”

“That was…” the man struggled for a minute. “Impressive. Kind of weird, but impressive.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock fidgeted unconsciously, not sure how to take the compliment. John squeezed his hand comfortingly.

“Shouldn’t you boys be getting home? It’s kind of late.” “John looked at his watch, noticing it was shortly after ten.

“Sure, officer. Thank you,” John said, pulling on Sherlock’s hand. “Come on Sherlock.”

Sherlock resisted for a moment, digging around in his pocket until he came up with a card with his name and number on it. “If you ever need my help. This is where you can reach me.” With that, he handed the card to the officer.

The man took it, rubbing his mouth with his hand. “Thanks,” he said, brandishing the card with a nod before tucking it in his breast pocket. As they walked away, John started shaking and Sherlock looked over at him, worried. He quickly got over his concern when he realized John was suppressing giggles.

“Sorry,” John said waving his hand. “That was just amazing.” A giggle escaped through his tightly pursed lips. Sherlock felt a chuckle escape from him and soon both he and John were overcome by giggles as they walked away, hand in hand, from the crime scene.

“Ssshh,” John whispered after a moment, “we can’t giggle at a crime scene.”

“There are worse things that can happen at crime scenes,” Sherlock said.

“True,” John conceded. “Coffee now?”

“Sure.” They made their way to the coffee shop without further incident and spent the following hour chatting, learning more about each other. John insisted on paying and Sherlock got tired of arguing, and so allowed him to pay.

“We should probably get going,” John said after an hour, looking at his watch. “Come on.”

"Okay,” Sherlock agreed easily. He found, much to his chagrin, that it was easy to obey the subtle commands that John constantly gave. John was gentle and never demanded anything extraneous. At least, not so far.

John took his hand once more as they made their way back up Baker Street towards the flat. Warmth radiated from John’s a hand, a dry warmth that seeped through Sherlock’s hand and crept up his arm and towards his heart. Sherlock swung their joined hands, humming a couple notes of the Chopin he had been playing earlier.

“You really do play beautifully,” John said when he recognized what Sherlock was humming. “I’d like it if you played for me sometime.”

“I would enjoy that as well,” Sherlock said quietly, staring at his feet.

“Good,” John replied just as quietly. “We’re here,” he added, looking up at the lit window of the flat.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, turning to face John.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” John murmured, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet. Slowly, he slipped his hand behind Sherlock’s neck and threaded his fingers through the curls at the nape. Looking deep into Sherlock’s eyes, John closed the small gap and rested his lips on Sherlock, just holding them there for a second. When he got no adverse reaction, he started moving his lips, shuffling forward until one of his feet rested between Sherlock’s. This allowed him to wrap his other hand around Sherlock’s shoulder, pulling him down towards him. Sherlock gasped as John started moving his lips, grabbing onto John’s waist for dear life. This was his first kiss and he was desperately trying to catalogue every new feeling and texture and thrill that went through him. His John room was steadily become more populated, the bookshelves and walls becoming fuller. John pulled away slowly, lightly running his nails over the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

“You’re amazing,” he breathed, laying one last chaste kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

“You already said that.”

“And I’ll continue to say it until you believe me,” John smiled softly at him. “Goodnight,” he said after a moment, letting go completely of Sherlock.

“Goodnight,” Sherlock responded quietly. Turning around, he climbed the steps to the door, turning back to look at John once more before going inside.

“How was the date, brother?” Mycroft greeted when Sherlock made it inside.

“It was… good,” Sherlock said, bewildered. Mycroft examined him for a moment.

“Yes, it looks like there may be hope for you yet,” he said jokingly.

“Quite. Well, I’m going to turn in.” Sherlock turned and wandered down the hall to his room.

“Sweet dreams,” he heard as he reached his bedroom door. Sherlock paused for a moment.

“You too.” He closed the door quietly behind him.


	5. A month later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg go flat hunting, while Sherlock and John cuddle and talk dynamic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, sorry I haven't been posting regularly but real life has got me in a stranglehold.

“It’s a little small,” Mycroft said, his nose turning up in disdain. They were looking at what was generously being called a flat, but was really more of a bachelor pad. It boasted a sitting room-kitchen-dining room combo with a door that led to a small bedroom-bathroom.

“I dunno, it’s kind of quaint,” Greg answered back.

“Exactly. No.”

Greg sighed in defeat. “Sorry,” he said to the realtor who was politely waiting by the door. “It doesn’t look like this is the one.”

“That’s alright,” she said calmly. “We’ve got one more to look at today.”

They quickly made their escape, exiting onto the street and hailing a cab. The realtor gave an address to the cabbie, and they were off, Mycroft and Greg in the back seat and the realtor in the front. When they arrived at their destination, Mycroft led the way to the front door, Greg falling next and the realtor bringing up the rear. When he reached the door, Mycroft stepped aside, letting the realtor pull out the key and unlock the door. She held the door open for both of them and Mycroft gave a polite nod of thanks.

The flat they entered was spacious, an open style with a few closed doors leading deeper into the flat. The kitchen and living room were one room with a door off the kitchen and a door beside that one. They quickly discovered that one door led to the bedroom while the other one led to the bathroom, both rather spacious. This flat was definitely bigger than the last.

“This one’s nice,” Greg commented, sticking his hands in his pockets and wandering over to a painting of a skyline on one of the living room walls.

“Hmm,” Mycroft hummed non-committedly.

“What don’t you like?” Greg asked, exasperated.

“It’s still a little small.”

“I think there’s just enough room for the two of us.”

“Well yes, but how are we to have company? There’s really not much room.”

“How much company will we be having? I was kind of hoping it would be just the two of us, for a while at least.” Greg made his way back to Mycroft and deftly slid his hand into his Dom’s. Mycroft shot a look at the realtor before leaning in close to Greg.

“I don’t like it,” he said with finality.

“When do you think you will like it?” Greg asked, patience wearing thin.

“When we find the right one,” Mycroft sniped in return. Greg closed his eyes briefly before opening them again.

“Whom exactly would you want to have for company?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and trying to read Mycroft’s mind. His imagination immediately jumped to Mycroft having secret lovers that he wanted to have over, and Greg’s stomach curdled uncomfortably.

“Does it really matter who?” Mycroft asked, trying to avoid eye contact even though they were inches apart.

“Mycroft,” Greg murmured impatiently, a breath away from him. “It’s fine, just tell me who it is.”

Mycroft squirmed, face turning red.

Suddenly, it hit Greg like a ton of bricks. “It’s Sherlock, right?” Greg asked when no answer was forthcoming. Greg laid his hand gently against the side of Mycroft’s face. “I get it. He’s your younger brother, you care about him. And he’s a submissive; you’re protective. I find it charming.”

Mycroft looked into Greg’s eyes for a moment. “I still don’t like this apartment.”

Greg chuckled tolerantly. “Alright.” He laid a gentle kiss on Mycroft’s lips. Then he turned to the realtor who was again waiting patiently by the door. “We’re going to have to make some adjustments to our flat specs.”

 

They were at it again two weeks later, on one of the rare evenings they were both free. This time they were at a significantly larger flat with a sitting room, a master bedroom, a guest bedroom and two bathrooms. Slick mahogany covered the floor, providing a counter point to the stainless steel lining the kitchen. It was all very slick and new and very much to Mycroft’s liking.

“I think this is it,” he said, turning to Greg with a smile. They were standing at the large windows lining the wall, overlooking the skyline of London.

“I don’t know. It’s kind of pricey.”

“Money is no concern for us, my dear,” Mycroft smiled beguilingly at Greg.

“Not for you, maybe, but I’m working with a police officer’s salary.”

“But what’s mine is yours, is that not how the saying goes? I can afford this flat, therefore we can afford this flat.” Mycroft’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“I’m not going to be a kept man,” Greg hissed, pulling closer to Mycroft. “We’re sharing the rent equally.”

Mycroft looked confused and stunned at Greg’s sudden outburst. “I don’t see why this is a problem. It’s no hardship on my part to provide the funds for the flat.”

“It’s not whether it’s hard or not, it’s just the fact that we should both be contributing equally to this relationship.”

“But you bring other things to the relationship,” Mycroft insisted earnestly. “Please, let me provide this?”

Greg could feel his resolve weakening at Mycroft’s sincere demeanor. “I’ll be contributing in part to the rent every month,” he insisted after a moment of contemplation. “And I’ll do more of the cooking.”

“That seems fair to me,” Mycroft agreed immediately. “So we are agreed on this flat?”

“Yes,” Greg agreed with a fond sigh. He really did like the flat, both it’s open layout and fantastic view.

 

Meanwhile across the city, John and Sherlock were stationed in 221B, perched on either end of the sofa as they did a quick back and forth.

“Favourite color?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Okay, then, what about favourite book?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Really? What about favourite animal?”

“Nope.”

“Come on, Sherlock. You can’t not like anything.” There was a hint of annoyance in his tone.

“It’s not that I don’t like anything, per se, more that I don’t have a favourite of those things.”

“Well then, what colours do you prefer? Top five?”

“For what purpose? To wear, to look at, to colour with?”

 

“To colour with. Wait, do you colour?” “I do some sketching and drawing in my free time. In that case, I prefer charcoal, brown, red, purple and blue.”

“Great. See, now I know more about you. What about-“

“What’s your favourite color?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Red. We have that in common.” John beamed at Sherlock. “Favourite animal?”

“Wild or domesticated?”

“Both.”

“Okapi and Irish Setter. You?”

“My favourite animal is a tiger.” He smiled once more at Sherlock.“Are you thirsty? I could really go for some tea right now.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment. “I believe we have tea. In the kitchen.” He looked over at the kitchen thoughtfully but seemed in no rush to get up and find out if they actually did have tea. John regarded him for a moment before getting up and heading to the kitchen, a small smile still playing on his lips. Moments later Sherlock heard the kettle click on and John rummaging around in his kitchen, cupboard doors opening and closing.

“All you have is Earl Grey, so I assume that will suffice,” he called good-naturedly from the kitchen.

“Whatever is fine,” Sherlock called back, stretching himself more comfortably on the sofa. “I don’t really ever cook or make tea. One more reason why I’m not a good submissive, I suppose.”

John’s head popped out from the kitchen, a frown furrowing his brow. “Now hold on,” he said, leaning more fully against the doorjamb. “Just because you’re a submissive doesn’t mean I expect you to sit at home on your hands all day, cooking and cleaning. Just as I wouldn’t expect a woman to do the same. Frankly, if that’s what determines whether you’re a good submissive or dominant, then I’m a shite dominant.”

“No you’re not,” Sherlock jumped in immediately.

“Thanks Sherlock,” John said warmly. “You’re a good submissive.” Sherlock tried to quash the warm feeling that wriggled in his stomach for a moment before deciding the effort wasn’t worth it. Although they hadn’t engaged in any sort of dynamic play, it was the small things like John constantly looking out for him or Sherlock continuously trying to make John proud that helped them know they were compatible. “Now, how do you take your tea?”

“Milk, two sugars and some honey.”

“What, are you drinking tea or a candy bar?” John joked as he turned back into the kitchen.

“As Mycroft says, it makes up for my sour personality.” Sherlock picked at the hem of his suit jacket.

“Yeah, well Mycroft can shove it. When’s he due back anyway?” John called from the kitchen.

“Not for another hour, at least.” John came back into the sitting room carrying two steaming mugs of tea. “Him and Lestrade are checking out flats. I think they might settle on one today.” John’s movement stuttered for a moment as he placed the two mugs on the low table in front of the sofa, glancing over at Sherlock.

“What’ll that mean for you? Will you get the flat to yourself?”

“It’s unclear; generally, the heads of the experiment prefer that submissives live either with their parents or with their dominant relative, which is frankly ridiculous.”

“Why do they want that?”

“They say it’s to provide stability for the submissive, and to care for them if they start going into subdrop. Also in case they are in need of punishment or being put into subspace. Like I said, ridiculous.”

“Can you request to live on your own?”

“I can, and that is the plan if Mycroft moves out. Worse comes to worse, he’s said I can move in with him and Lestrade but I’d really rather not.”

“Yeah, I can’t blame you there,” John said quietly. “It kind of sucks, the inequality they’ve put on the two different statuses, doesn’t it?”

“That is an understatement.”

“Yes, well I don’t believe submissives are less that dominants. In fact, the amount that I want to please a submissive puts me at their mercy, more often than not.”

“I know, you’ve said,” Sherlock said quietly as John sat on the sofa, picking Sherlock’s feet up and plopping them onto his lap. He started slowly rubbing his hands along Sherlock’s long feet, digging his thumb into the arches. Sherlock let a low groan escape his lips as John worked over his feet, tension slowly easing out of his feet and legs.

“Do you believe me?” John asked quietly after a couple minutes of silence.

“About what?” Sherlock asked distractedly, his mind starting to float peacefully.

“That I don’t think any less of submissives.”

“Of course I believe you,” Sherlock sighed. “I’ve always been able to recognize your honesty when talking about dynamics. And you haven’t given me cause to think you’re being deceitful in any way, consciously or otherwise.”

“So you’re willing to give us an honest chance?” John asked. “As a dominant submissive couple?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock hummed. “Although I don’t want you bossing me around all the time.”

“Of course not,” John chuckled. “You have your own life that you lead. I may have ground rules around eating and sleeping, but those are things we can negotiate as we go. And it won’t be anything ridiculous, I promise. We’ll write out a contract and everything.”

“Not tonight though.”

“No, no, I think we’re too comfortable right now for that,” John soothed, running his hands slowly up and down Sherlock’s calves. “Just relax.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this relaxed in my life,” Sherlock admitted on an exhale, arms coming above his head in a full-body stretch that had him arching in John’s lap.

“Good,” John said once Sherlock had settled once more. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Sort of floaty,” Sherlock said, letting his head loll to the side so he had a clear view of John.

“Yeah, I think you’re starting to slip into subspace.”

“Yep,” Sherlock agreed. “Mycroft puts me under every couple months to keep my hormones balanced.”

“Mmm, I did the same for Harry when we were younger. I won’t put you fully under since we haven’t discussed limits or contracts or anything, but this is nice.”

“Yes, it is. I don’t mind the orders you give me, you know. I agree with them a lot of the time in fact, or know in some objective way that they are probably good for me. But if I don’t like the orders you give me, then we’ll have a problem.”

“Yes, dear,” John said half joking before becoming serious again. “That’s what safe words are for, and contracts. All things we will be dealing with shortly.”

“But not tonight.”

“No, not tonight.” Sherlock regarded John once more before gently pulling his feet out from under John’s hands and rotating 180 degrees, plopping his head in John’s lap instead. “Continue,” he said imperiously, humming low in his throat as John’s fingers slid gently into his dark curls. John didn’t make comment, just continued to run his hands soothingly along Sherlock’s scalp and down to his neck. Sherlock’s eyes closed involuntarily and he felt his mind drift, not settling on any one particular thought.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was gently snoring in John’s lap and John thought he had never felt so in love. Gently he eased his fingers out of Sherlock’s hair, knowing Mycroft would be coming home soon. “Sherlock?” he called gently, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Sherlock, wake up.” Sherlock’s eyes slowly cracked open.

“John?”

“Yeah, I’m going to carry you upstairs to bed. Mycroft’s going to be back soon.”

“Okay.”

“Wrap your arms around my neck. There’s a good lad.” Sherlock’s breath slid out shakily from between his lips at the praise. When he was securely attached, John slid his hands under Sherlock knees and scooped him up. John was eminently grateful that Sherlock’s room was on the same level as the sitting room, so it took him only a few moments to get Sherlock into his room. Putting him down on the bed, John sat him on the side of the bed and pulled back the blankets, sliding Sherlock underneath them and tucking the blankets around him. “Sherlock? I’m gonna go now.” John brushed an errant curl off of Sherlock’s forehead.

“Okay, goodnight,” Sherlock mumbled, not opening his eyes.

“Goodnight,” John chuckled, his heart full to bursting. Leaning down, he brushed a gentle kiss over Sherlock’s forehead and then over his lips.

“Thank you,” John heard from behind him as he reached Sherlock’s bedroom door.

“My pleasure,” he responded sincerely, looking back once more at the sleeping detective before heading back to the sitting room to gather his coat. As he was pulling it on, he heard a key in the door. A moment later, Mycroft and Greg sauntered through the door, hand in hand.

“Hi John,” Greg said in greeting.

“Hi Greg. How’s it going?”

“Good, good.” He looked over at Mycroft and a smile lit up his face.

“Successful flat hunting?”

“Yeah,” Greg admitted, his smile not wavering. “We were gonna tell Sherlock…”

“He’s asleep. I got him down into a light subspace, so he’ll be sleeping it off for the next eight hours or so.”

“It will be the first eight hours of straight sleep he’s gotten in about two years,” Mycroft said, trying to suppress the note of awe that had crept into his voice.

“You may be what he needs, John Watson,” Greg said drily.

“That works both ways, trust me,” John smirked. “But now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m pretty tired myself so I think I’ll be heading home. Goodnight, and congrats on the flat.”

“Thanks, mate,” Greg clapped him on the shoulder.

“Goodnight, John,” Mycroft said, lifting his hand. John let himself out of the flat and took the stairs quickly, emerging into the cool night air and tucking his hands into his pockets and letting a goofy grin grace his face. Pulling out his phone, he quickly typed out a text for Sherlock to read when he woke up.

_Thanks for being so good for me tonight._


	6. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Lestrade try to figure out their dynamic- in a slightly explosive manner. Meanwhile, Sherlock and John make a big decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't posted in a long time, I haven't had a day off in two months so it's been me sitting in small spurts to try to get this out. I can't promise it'll get any better for the next few months, but I haven't forgotten this story, I promise!!

Dark mahogany shone on the floor, marred here and there by the light scuff marks of new furniture being placed.   
“The sofa needs to go a little to the left,” Mycroft said thoughtfully, watching as Greg pushed it once more across the floor.   
“There?”  
“Yes, good. Thank you.”   
They had started the process of moving into their new apartment a few days ago and were slowly but surely settling in. The movers had done most of the work, settling the big pieces of furniture and getting all the boxes sorted into the right rooms. And then Mycroft had descended, nitpicky and ordering everyone about. Greg had found it endearing at the beginning but was now starting to feel a little chafed.   
“Is there anything else?” Greg asked, a hard edge creeping into his voice.   
“Yes, what colour of throw should we put on the sofa?” Mycroft asked, seeming not to notice the edge in Greg’s voice.   
“I don’t know, what colours do we have?”  
“Red, blue, green, taupe or black. They’re in a box upstairs, would you go get it?”  
“I think you can get it,” Greg replied sharply. Mycroft looked over at Greg, his brow furrowed.   
“ I asked you to go get it.”  
“Yes, and I’m telling you that I don’t want to.”  
“Gregory.” Mycroft’s tone dropped half a pitch and he focused entirely on Greg. “Go get the box.”  
Greg resisted the sensation of his knees turning to jelly, firmly keeping his eyes locked on Mycroft’s. “I’m not going to get the box.”  
“It’s just up the stairs. Go. Get. It.”   
Greg’s felt his back go up. “I’ve been pushing and moving everything all day and I’m tired and you can never make up your mind and I don’t want to and I’m tired.” He was despairingly close to tears.   
Mycroft looked coolly at Greg. “Is that all?”  
“Is that all?” Greg felt himself go shrill. “I’m not your slave.”  
“No, but you are my submissive and that means that you must listen to me.” Mycroft took a step closer to Greg.  
“It also means you have to listen to me when I tell you I’m tired and I don’t want to do something. There’s take and give in any relationship.” Mycroft was still regarding him coolly, but there was also a considering, calculating look in his eyes. “What, are you going to punish me for being tired?”  
“No, but I might punish you for disobeying me.”  
“Do you want to have a relationship with me?” Greg felt a calm descend on him even as his stomach hollowed out.   
“Of course I want to have a relationship with you, I love you. What does that have to do with anything?”  
Greg felt his breath catch slightly at the words Mycroft had never said before. “It has to do with the fact that if you’re punishing me for not good reasons, I won’t be a part of that relationship. And saying that you love me won’t get you out of trouble,” he said around a dry patch in his throat. “We still need to talk about you not listening to me.”  
“I don’t see what’s wrong, I gave you an order, you should follow it, yes?”  
“And what if you give an order that I’m incapable of following? Physically or mentally? Will you punish me for that? And what about when I’m physically too tired to go on. Why should I be punished simply because I’m physically exhausted from a long day at work?”  
“You… make a good point.” Mycroft nodded. “Is that not why we have safewords?”  
Greg felt himself go red as he realized he had completely forgotten about his safeword.“Yeah, I guess I kind of forgot about that. I’ll use it next time. Sorry.”  
“Forgiven, of course. And I apologize for not realizing exactly how tired you were. I will endeavor to listen to you more.”   
Greg felt any remaining fight go out of him at Mycroft’s words. “Thanks.” True exhaustion laced Greg’s voice.  
“Come here,” Mycroft beckoned to their newly-positioned sofa and sat down, patting the spot beside him. Greg, without further encouragement, slumped down into the spot next to him with a gusty sigh. Mycroft put his arm around Greg and drew him close, laying a kiss on the top of his head. “Do you need to be put down?” he murmured against the crown of Greg’s head.  
“Yeah, maybe,” Greg sighed. Mycroft had put him into subspace a few times over the past couple months, enough to keep him balanced. “Not a scene, though. I’m too exhausted for that.”  
“Of course not,” Mycroft assured him. “Why don’t you kneel on the floor?” Greg slid gracefully to his knees, turning so that he was facing Mycroft. “Good boy,” Mycroft purred, running his hands gently through Greg’s hair. “There you go. Deep breaths. Let the tension out of your shoulders.” Greg let Mycroft’s voice wash over him, his words gently rocking him towards subspace. Fingernails started scraping against the back of Greg’s neck, leaving red marks in their wake. In the few times that Mycroft had brought Greg down, he had learned that it took a careful balance of pleasure and pain to get him fully down, unlike Sherlock who needed pure pleasure.   
Mycroft dug his nails slightly into Greg’s scalp as he dragged his fingers through his dark hair.   
“Gorgeous,” he sighed as he scratched lightly at the crown of Greg’s head.   
“Mmmm,” Greg hummed, letting his body sag into Mycroft’s knees. Greg continued dragging his hand through Greg’s hair, letting his other hand dig into the knots in Greg’s shoulders. Slowly Greg’s shoulders relaxed, and he started purring into the side of Mycroft’s knee. They sat like that for a couple minutes.   
“How’s it going down there?” Mycroft asked softly, easing his nails off of Greg’s scalp and gently carding the pads of his fingers through Greg’s hair. It took Greg a moment to form words; his tongue was heavy and relaxed in his mouth.   
“Good, M’coft.”  
Mycroft chuckled at the butchering of his name. He found it adorable how deeply Greg could fall into subspace with just a bit of touching. “You really needed it, hmmm? You went down very easily today.”  
“Mmm hmmm,” Greg agreed.   
“I think it’s time you come up, now love.”   
“M’kay,” Greg heaved a deep-belly sigh. Slowly rousing himself, he put his hand on Mycroft’s thigh and rubbed his face into Mycroft’s knee lie a kitten reluctant to wake from a nap, whining a little bit in his throat.   
“Come on up for a little cuddle,” Mycroft said, gently putting his hands under Greg’s armpits and helping him up onto his lap.   
“Thanks,” Greg said a little clearer, wrapping his arms shamelessly around Mycroft like an octopus and cuddling in close. An arm slung around Greg’s back and drew him closer to Mycroft’s heat.   
“There you go, my beautiful boy.”  
“ ’M not a boy,” Greg grumbled, rubbing his face into Mycroft’s shoulder.  
“Alright, my beautiful man then.”  
“Damn right.” They both chuckled.   
“Feeling better?” Mycroft asked after a few minutes of cuddling.   
“Much.” Greg laid a soft kiss on Mycroft’s cheek. Mycroft shifted his head so that he could line his lips up with Greg’s. Gently he kissed Greg, moving his lips sweetly and softly. After a moment, they pulled away.   
“I do love you,” Mycroft breathed against Greg’s lips.  
“Yeah, yeah, I love you too,” Greg responded, leaning his forehead against Mycroft’s. 

*******

Rrrriiiiiiinnngg.  
Sherlock pulled his lips away from John’s with a small pop.   
“Come back here, you wanker,” John goaded, hooking his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulling him in for another kiss. Sherlock let himself get pulled in for a moment while he dug in his pocket for his ringing phone. He let out a triumphant grunt before pulling back once again from John and looking down at the screen.   
“It’s the D.I.!” he exclaimed, trying to push John away with one hand while answering the phone with the other. John, for his part, was bodily trying to drag Sherlock back towards him while his sub resisted.   
“Holmes,” Sherlock answered the phone. He listened for a minute. “Where? We’ll be right there.” He looked at John, a spark of excitement in his eye. “A case, John!”  
“What, really?”  
“Yes, now put your shirt back on, let’s go!” Sherlock scooped up John’s jumper that had been discarded earlier and shoved it at John’s chest.   
“Okay, okay,” John chuckled, taking the jumper and quickly pulling it over his head. “Let’s go.” Sherlock swept out of the bedroom like a tornado, collecting his coat and scarf on the way out and flying through the door. Collecting his coat, John followed Sherlock out the door and locked it behind them. Sherlock was already hailing a cab, arm imperiously in the air. In no time a cab had pulled up to the kerb and Sherlock slid gracefully in, John sliding in behind him. Sherlock fired off an address and the cab pulled into traffic. The ride was quick and quiet, both men caught up in their own thoughts.   
When they arrived at their destination, Sherlock swooped out of the cab, leaving John to pay the cabbie. By the time John exited the cab, Sherlock was already down a dark alley on the public side of the tape, listening intently to the same D.I. as the first crime scene.   
“-victim has been identified as Joe Laroque, owner of a small bakery down the street. Any ideas?”  
“Seven. Now can I see the body?”   
The D.I. regarded Sherlock for a moment. “Sure.” He motioned him under the tape, but when John tried to follow he held his hand up.   
“Um- John Watson, I’m here with Sherlock.”  
“D.I. Nolan, how can you help Sherlock?”  
“Well…” John was stumped for a moment. “I’m training to be a doctor.” He could also comment on how he kept Sherlock grounded and focused, but didn’t think the D.I. needed to know that.   
“Problem?” The voice came from behind the D.I.  
“Does he really-?”  
“Yes.”  
The D.I. heaved a big sigh. “Look, we’re really in the shit here so I’ll let him on. But one toe out of line…” the D.I. pointed threateningly at both boys.  
“Yes, sir,” John replied. “No need to worry here.”  
Without further ado the D.I. held up the yellow tape, allowing John to duck under and join them on the other side. Without looking back, Sherlock stalked over to the body and crouched down, eyes flicking over and around it.   
The man had bee shot twice in the chest, bullet holes bleeding out and creating a pool of blood under him. He was on his back and dressed in a dirty, off white t-shirt and dark, flour stained pants.   
“John, come look.” John crouched down next to Sherlock. “Clearly bled out, shot twice in the chest. What can you observe?”  
“Well, the D.I. said he was the owner of a bakery, evidenced by the flour on his pants. His shoes have mud on them but it hasn’t rained today so I’d say he was walking in a muddy area yesterday. I’d put time of death approximately twelve hours ago, and I think it’s safe to say he died here.”  
“Well that was all obvious, but not necessarily wrong. He was killed by his wife, who has life insurance out on him. Obvious in the area of skin around his ring and the mud on the bottom of his shoes. She shot him in an alley as a way to make it look impersonal, so that she wouldn’t be suspected. She should be at home right now, but will be running shortly so you may want to get a move on.” Sherlock looked up at the D.I. who was hovering over his shoulder, furiously scribbling in his notebook.   
Because his back was turned, Sherlock didn’t see the woman slink out of the shadows behind him and leap over the body, shoving him into the ground before scampering out of the alley and down the street.   
A string of expletives exploded out of John as he yanked Sherlock up by the arm. “Get behind me and let’s go!” he shouted, sprinting out of the alley.   
Sherlock was hot on his heels. They dashed down the street, the form in front of them shoving people out of the way as she weaved through the masses.   
“Stop her!” John shouted, pointing at the woman they were pursuing. In short time they pulled even with her, and John reached out and grabbed the woman’s arm. “You’re under arrest!” he shouted, twisting her arm behind her back.   
“Well, I mean technically we can’t arrest her,” Sherlock mumbled under his breath, smiling disconcertingly at the passerby who had stopped to stare. “But here comes the man who can,” he said a little louder, nodding at the huffing D.I. “The wife, as predicted,” he said, gesturing to the woman and John, both struggling for dominance.   
“You are under arrest, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” D.I. Nolan quickly slapped handcuffs on the woman, taking her out of John’s grasp. “And I’ll see you two at New Scotland Yard, right behind us.” His voice left no room for argument.   
“I think we’ve done our job here,” Sherlock protested. “We’re not needed at New Scotland Yard.”  
“Not negotiable,” D.I. Nolan responded.   
“We’ll be there,” John responded.  
Sherlock huffed and slumped his shoulders, slipping into a pout.   
“Hail a cab,” John ordered him. Petulantly, Sherlock held out his hand and flagged down a cab. They slid in and John gave the address, leaning back into the seat and putting his hand over Sherlock’s. “If you don’t stop pouting, I’ll have to smack some sense into that arse of yours,” he said under his breath, leaning close to Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock shuddered, nuzzling his nose into the crook of John’s neck.   
“I don’t think you realize how hot it was when you were chasing down that woman,” Sherlock breathed.  
“Oh trust me, I know. And it’ll only get better once we get home. But in order to get home, we need to finish up at New Scotland Yard. So the quicker we do that, the quicker we’ll get home.”   
They pulled up to New Scotland Yard and got out, Sherlock practically sprinting out of the cab. He burst through the front doors and quickly made his way to the D.I..’s office. D.I. Nolan was already there, starting on the paperwork for the case.   
“Sit,” he greeted them, pointing at the two chairs across his desk. Sherlock waited for John to sit before taking the seat next to him. He then returned to his paperwork, letting the two men stew for a couple of minutes. “So what made you think it was a good idea to go running after a murderer?” He asked, leaning back in his chair once he had finished filling out the last piece of paper on his desk.   
“Um, she was running away,” John replied. “And needed to be caught.”  
“And what made you think the police force couldn’t do it?”  
“Well, they can’t,” Sherlock jumped in.   
“Pardon?”  
“You needed to call me in for help,” Sherlock shrugged. “Clearly your force is incompetent. In some respects, at least.”   
“But you’re right,” John cut in, throwing a warning glare at Sherlock. “We should have let you handle it. We are very sorry.”  
“Yes, what John said,” Sherlock agreed.  
“Although that was less than convincing, I’ll let this one go this time. But only because you were mostly right. Next time, leave the chasing to us, alright?”  
“Yes, sir,” John responded. He unsubtly elbowed Sherlock in the ribs.  
“Yes, alright.”  
“Alright, dismissed.”   
The two men got up and left, Sherlock quickly hailing them a cab and getting them efficiently back to Baker Street.   
When they arrived, Sherlock flounced into the building and left John to follow. He held the door open for John at the top of the stairs, which earned him a quick word of thanks, followed by a brisk shove up against the wall and John’s lips crashing onto his. John made quick work of shedding both their coats and scarves, never breaking their kiss.  
“John,” Sherlock gasped, finally breaking away for air. “What-?”  
“You were so sexy today, first figuring out who did it and then running by my side to catch the murderer.” He dragged Sherlock towards him once more.   
“Move in with me,” Sherlock blurted when they broke apart once again for air.   
“What?”  
“Move in. Here. With me. It’s where you belong, John,” Sherlock dipped his head so he was making eye contact with John.   
“Are you just asking me so that you don’t have to move in with your brother and Lestrade?” Sherlock had received an ultimatum from the heads of the experiment- either find a dom to live with in the next two months, or live with Mycroft until he found one.   
“Of course not,” Sherlock cupped John’s face in his hands. “You think I would be so boring?”  
“Never.” John grinned at Sherlock.  
“So, will you move in with me?”  
“Of course, you daft sod,” John smirked before pulling Sherlock in once more for a kiss.


	7. Sherlock gets punished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets punished. Heed the tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually I have a Sherlock-John portion and Greg-Mycroft portion, but I didn't have time for both so you only get Sherlock-John. I'll write a Greg-Mycrfot accompanying one eventually though, no worries.

“Time for dinner, Sherlock,” John called from the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on his and Sherlock’s sandwich. When no answer was forthcoming, John stuck his head out of the doorframe and peered into the living room. The sight of Sherlock, sprawled on his back with a folder held above his face was what John observed when he looked around the doorjamb. Sherlock was currently working on a case for D.I. Nolan; although he didn’t get cases regularly, the D.I. was letting him work on a case every couple of months, which kept Sherlock busy enough. He was currently engulfed in the beheading of an elderly maths teacher.   
“Sherlock, come eat,” John tried again.  
“Not eating,” Sherlock replied, not pulling his eyes from the folder.   
“Pardon?”  
“Not. Eating.”  
“Yes you are.”  
“No.”  
“Mmm. No. You are eating. You have five seconds to put down that folder and come eat. One.” Sherlock’s hands twitched on the folder, but he didn’t move.  
“Two.” John crosses his arms.  
“Three. Four. Five. Right, in the corner.”  
“What? No! John, no!”  
“You don’t want to listen, you can spend five minutes in the corner.”  
“But John that’s not fair!”  
“Six minutes, then. Keep whining, and you’ll make it seven.”  
“No John-“  
“Now! Seven minutes in the corner, and then we’ll talk. While you’re there, I don’t want to see you moving, and I want you to think of why you’re in the corner, and how you will avoid being there in the future.” John gave him a glare that said he meant business.   
Sherlock huffed and slammed the folder down onto the sofa, flinging himself up and stomping to the corner. When he got there he crossed his arms.  
“Hands behind your head!” John barked and Sherlock quickly obeyed with a soft growl. “Seven minutes starts now. No moving.”   
Watching Sherlock for a moment, John observed the tense lines in Sherlock’s shoulders and neck. He knew this case was stressing his boy out and he was determined to fix that. Heading back into the kitchen, John put their sandwiches in the fridge, knowing they’d keep for however long it took him to get Sherlock back in order. John made himself a tea, carefully watching the clock.   
When the seven minutes were up, John went into the living room and sat on the sofa, putting his tea on the small table beside it. “Come here,” John said. John was pleased to note that Sherlock’s shoulders had lost some of their tension. Sherlock turned and made his way over, feet whispering across the floor. “Kneel, please,” John said, motioning to the floor in front of him. Sherlock did, knowing that this meant he was still being punished. He lowered his eyes to his clasped hands on his lap. “So, let’s talk about why you were sent to the corner.”  
“Because I wouldn’t eat.”  
“And in not eating you also… “John prompted.  
“Disobeyed you,” Sherlock sighed.  
“That’s right, smart boy. Now, why wouldn’t you eat?”  
“Because I’m on a case, John.”  
“Yes, and?”  
“Eating slows down my thinking,” Sherlock mumbled.  
“Eating slows- that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”  
“It’s not ridiculous,” Sherlock murmured petulantly.   
“No, it kind of is. Food fuels your brain, Sherlock.”  
“No.”  
“No?”  
“No.“ Sherlock fidgeted with his hands.   
“Would you like to review that statement and try again?” John’s voice had a hard edge to it.   
“I will not eat. And you are mean for forcing me to eat.”  
“Oh, I’m mean, am I?” John wound his hand into Sherlock’s hair and tightened his grip.  
“Yes!” Sherlock’s hands balled into fists. “If you loved me you would let me not eat if I didn’t want to.”  
“We’ll address that in a minute. Right now I need you over my knee.” John tugged on Sherlock’s hair.  
“No, I won’t!”  
“Right now, Sherlock, I won’t ask again.”  
“No, no no! I’ll be good, I promise,” Sherlock shrieked and wailed as John bodily dragged him over his lap.  
“Stay still!” John wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s waist, holding him in place. “Now, I’m going to spank you until I feel you’ve learned your lesson. No need to count.” Without waiting for an answer, John let his hand fall in a measured rhythm onto Sherlock’s trouser-covered backside. John had never had to punish Sherlock with a spanking before, corner time usually doing the trick. Although spanking was in their contract as an acceptable form of punishment, John kept a sharp eye on how his boy was reacting.  
Sherlock fell more and more limp as the strikes continued and at number fifteen, he let out a bodily sob. John immediately stopped. “Do you need to use your safeword?” John asked, leaving his hand hovering in the air.  
“No,” Sherlock sobbed, a deep breath wracking his body.   
“Okay.” John was close to done anyway. He let another six land on Sherlock’s backside and then ran his hand soothingly over his lower back. “We’re done now, Sherlock.” Sherlock was still sobbing uncontrollably, so John pulled him up and wrapped his arms tightly around his boy, letting Sherlock nuzzle wetly into his neck. “There you go, there’s a good boy. I know you might not want to talk, but I need to know you’re okay.”  
“Of course I am,” Sherlock hiccupped between sobs. “I would have safe worded if I wasn’t.” Sherlock’s breaths were coming easier now and the tears were slowing. “This is good, I needed the emotional release,” Sherlock admitted quietly after a few moment.  
“I have a proposition to make,” John said as he cradled his boy in his lap. “What if, during cases, you only have to eat breakfast in the morning and a light snack in the afternoon. Would that be acceptable to you?”   
Sherlock hesitated for a moment. “Yes, John.”   
“You do know I love you, right? So much.”  
“Yes John.”  
“And that’s why I make you do things like eat and sleep.”  
Sherlock sighed. “Yes John.”  
“And you know you’ve got your safe word so that at any time, if you feel I am being truly unfair, you can back out.”  
“I know, John.”  
“Good boy. Now, how do you feel about eating?”  
Sherlock grumbled under his breath while nuzzling back into the nape of John’s neck.  
“Can I feed you? Would that make it worse or better?”  
“Definitely better,” Sherlock mumbled into John’s skin.   
“Okay, can you stay here while I go and get our lunch?”  
Sherlock’s breath caught and he paused for a moment. “Can I come with you?”  
“Of course, love.” John stood, keeping an arm wrapped tightly around Sherlock. They made their way to the kitchen and John quickly got their sandwiches out of the fridge, Sherlock plastered to his side the entire time. They wound up back in their original positions with John sitting on the sofa and Sherlock kneeling at his feet, but this time Sherlock was leaning against John’s knee.   
“Open up,” John said, leaning down to hold a corner of sandwich against Sherlock’s lips. Obediently he opened up, letting John slip the morsel into his mouth and sucking on John’s fingers. John took a bite of his sandwich, running his hands contently through Sherlock’s curls. He then fed another torn-off piece of sandwich to Sherlock, who took it without complaint, this time nipping at John’s fingertips.  
“Tease,” John chuckled quietly as he tightened his hand momentarily in Sherlock’s curls. Reaching for his mug of tea, he took a sip and made a face before offering the mug to Sherlock. Sherlock gratefully took a sip, glancing up at John.  
“You made it the way I like it,” he said incredulously.   
“Of course I did, love.”  
“You knew how this was going to go?”  
“I had an idea,” John admitted, petting Sherlock’s hair.   
“I don’t deserve you.”  
“I could say the same,” John whispered softly.   
“Well, good thing we found each other anyway, then.” Sherlock rubbed his face into John’s shin before accepting the next piece of sandwich offered. When they had both finished their sandwiches and the mug of tea, John put the plate and mug to the side and picked up the discarded folder.   
“So, anything of interest in this case?”  
They spent the rest of the night working on the case, Sherlock enthusiastically bouncing ideas off of his conductor of light.


	8. Greg gets punished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg comes home distressed and in need of a punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moly it's been a while. I've been suuuuuuuper busy and wrote this to avoid writing three research papers, but everything will wrap up around the end of April so hopefully I'll be posting more regularly. I'm not sure where this story is going, it's kind of writing itself at this point. If there's anything you want to see or that you think would be a great idea, feel free to leave it in the comments. I may not take all/any of the ideas/suggestions, but they're nice to have. Thanks for reading!

Jesus it had been a long day.   
The police force had had to deal with an armed robbery that went sour and, although he was only a lowly constable, Greg still felt responsible. The perp that they had tried to detain at the small shop had opened fire, mildly injuring some and severely injuring one other. Word was that the woman had been shot in the spine and would be permanently paralyzed for the rest of her life. Greg couldn’t help but think that if he had gotten onto the scene a second sooner, or if he had been the one talking to the perp, maybe he would have been able to talk them down. The rational part of Greg’s mind knew that it wasn’t his fault and there was really nothing he could have done, but yet he felt guilty and anxious.   
Getting into the flat, Greg turned on the light and took off his coat, hanging it absently on the hooks by the door. He was the first one home but he hadn’t gotten a text from Mycroft, which meant he should be home shortly.   
Thoughts flitting relentlessly from one side of his head to another, Greg sat down on the couch and wearily rubbed his hands over his face. Scrubbing his hands briskly through his hair, Greg released a shaky breath and then dropped his hands between his knees. They blurred out of focus as he sunk into his mind, lost in the flurry of thoughts flying around like a blizzard in his brain.   
An indeterminate amount of time passed, Greg sinking further and further into his thoughts. When the door to the flat clicked opened, Greg didn’t notice, the buzz of the thoughts in his head drowning out all other noise.   
Mycroft noticed Greg sitting on the sofa, seemingly lost in thought and decided not to disturb him for the time being. Instead, Mycroft hung his coat and went into the kitchen, making two teas and banging the utensils particularly loud to alert Greg to his presence.   
When he emerged once more into the sitting room, Mycroft crossed to the sofa and sat down, plunking the two mugs of tea onto the low coffee table located in front of the sofa.   
“Hello,” Mycroft said softly to Greg, who had yet to look at him. He waited expectantly for a moment before laying a hand gently on Greg’s arm. Greg jerked violently, pulling his arm away and looking wildly to Mycroft.   
“What- oh, hi. When did you get home?” he blinked owlishly at Mycroft.   
“About twenty minutes ago,” he said, starting to feel concern creeping into his peripherals. “You didn’t hear me come in?”  
“No,” Greg answered simply, a little distant.  
“How was your day?” Mycroft asked tentatively, turning and gingerly taking Greg’s hands in both of his.  
“Fine,” Greg answered, pulling his hands out of Mycroft’s and standing, walking towards the windows and looking out at the dark skyline sprawled out in front of him. Mycroft frowned at Greg’s back, standing and going over to the windows as well. He stood beside Greg with his hands in his pockets, the only sound that of Greg’s slightly elevated breathing.  
“That was a lie. Would you like to try again?” Mycroft asked delicately. Greg’s hands squeezed into fists at his sides and he took a sharp breath in.   
“Look, Mycroft, I’m fine, alright?” Growling, he spun away and raked his nails roughly through his hair, aimlessly pacing around the large flat.   
“Gregory, please,” Mycroft called softly, knowing he needed to give his sub space to work things out on his own, but feeling his heart breaking at the sight of Greg’s distress.  
“I just, I don’t. It’s stupid, alright? I just can’t make it shut up. I just, I just,” Greg was hyperventilating at this point, both hands digging into his scalp as he breathed sharply and tears coursing slowly down his cheeks.   
“Greg, listen to me. I need you to breathe.” Lightly, Mycroft put one hand over top of one of Greg’s, not pulling but just resting on his. “I know it’s scary,” Mycroft continued, “but I need you to take a deep breath for me. You’re hyperventilating and that’s not good. I’ve got you, I won’t let you go, I just need you to take a deep breath for me.” Slowly, haltingly, Greg dragged air into his lungs, smaller at first but slowly evening out as he regained control. As he regained control, his deep breaths turned into soft sobs and he gripped tightly onto Mycroft’s hand, falling into him as Mycroft wrapped his other arm around Greg’s waist and supported him. “There we go,” Mycroft soothed, internally shaken. His sub was clearly distressed and he didn’t know why or how to help him. As tears continued to soak Mycroft’s suit, he hummed and stroked Greg’s back as best he could, hoping the vibrations in his chest would help soothe Greg. After a while, Greg pulled away gently, loosening his grip on Mycroft’s hand but not pulling away.   
“Sorry,” he said hoarsely. “That was a bit… surprising,” he chuckled wetly.   
“For you and me both,” Mycroft responded softly, laying a gentle kiss on Greg’s head. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”   
“Sure,” Greg sighed. They sat on the floor right where they were, and Greg haltingly told Mycroft of the botched bank robbery. His eyes were dry as he sat in the comfortable embrace of Mycroft’s arms.   
“Why didn’t they send you home straight after this happened?” Mycroft asked, tamping down the fury bubbling in his throat.  
“They tried,” Greg admitted. “I insisted that I stay and finish the paperwork; I didn’t want to be home alone for that long.”  
“It was good of you to know you shouldn’t be alone, but you also should have called me. I could have met you here.”  
“I didn’t want to be a bother,” Greg mumbled.  
“You never are,” Mycroft said fiercely, tightening his arms around Greg momentarily. “If something like that ever happens, I will do my best to be there for you. All you need to do is call.”  
Greg took a deep, shaky breath. “There’s something else,” he admitted after a moment.  
“What is it?” Mycroft asked, his face carefully neutral.   
“I can’t stop feeling guilty,” Greg admitted. “I think… I think I need you to punish me.”  
“No,” Mycroft said as a knee-jerk reaction. “You have done nothing wrong.”  
“I know that,” Greg growled, frustrated. “But it won’t stop, Mycroft. Make it stop. Please.” Fisting Mycroft’s shirt, Greg burrowed his face into Mycroft’s chest.   
Mycroft deliberated for a moment. Although he didn’t feel necessarily comfortable punishing his sub when he didn’t feel he deserved it, he also knew it was something that Greg needed.   
“Alright,” Mycroft said after taking a deep, calming breath. “Strip down to your pants, and go kneel in the bedroom.” Quietly Greg got to his feet, slipping into their bedroom. Mycroft watched his sub leave and sighed, bracing himself for what he needed to do. Slowly he got to his feet, giving Greg enough time to get ready before he slipped into the bedroom, greeted with the sight of Greg on his knees by the bed. “Gorgeous,” Mycroft breathed. “So, why are we here, Gregory?”  
“Because I feel I performed inadequately at my job today and, as a result, someone got permanently injured.”   
“Thank you for your honesty. I would like to enforce the fact that you are more than adequate, but I recognize your need for punishment, and will therefore mete it out as I see fit. But first…” Leaving the sentence hanging, Mycroft walked over to their closet and opened the drawer containing the toys and implements he and Greg had compiled in their time together. Pulling out the nipple clamps, Mycroft dangled them from his finger by the chain. Stalking slowly back to Greg, Mycroft knelt in front of Greg and snapped the first clamp onto one of Greg’s nipples, smiling gently at the small hiss that Greg emitted.  
“Please, make as much noise as you want,” Mycroft murmured, leaning forward and biting playfully at Greg’s earlobe. While he was distracted, Mycroft pinched the other nipple with the other clamp, letting Greg get used to the sting. Running his finger gently over the chain, Mycroft gave a soft tug before capturing Greg’s mouth in a consuming kiss. “Now, I want you to crawl into the kitchen and make me dinner. Something simple, please. Bring it to me in the sitting room; you can stand once you get into the kitchen.” Mycroft watched his sub crawl out the door, smiling softly at the backside that greeted him. Going back over to the drawers that held their implements, Mycroft took out a small bag of rice and turned it over in his hands, feeling the hard give between his hands. Following his subs path, he made his way into the sitting room and opened the small Ziploc bag of rice, pouring it in a roughly two foot by two foot patch, trying to spread it as evenly as he could. Sitting down on the sofa, he reached for his lukewarm tea and took a sip, grimacing slightly but drinking it as he waited. He listened to the soft tinkling of knives and plates, comforted by the constant noise. A few minutes later his sub walked in, carrying a plate with a sandwich and some carrot sticks on it in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Greg paused and looked apprehensively at the patch of rice on the ground. Then, seeming to steel himself, Greg placed the plate and glass on the coffee table and kneeled resolutely on the patch of rice, resting his hands on his thighs and bowing his head. The rice dug into his knees immediately, sending small shooting stings up his kneecap and upper calf.   
“Good boy,” Mycroft praised, raking his nails roughly along Greg’s scalp. The pain was as much pleasure as it was punishment. He then reached for a carrot stick and snapped it in half, holding out a piece towards Greg. “Keep your hands behind your back. I’m going to feed you,” he told him.  
“But that’s not a punishment,” Greg was confused.   
“No talking. You’ll eat everything I give you, not a morsel more and not a morsel less. And you will kneel on that rice without shifting or complaint and think about how important it is that you care for yourself and recognize how hard you work and how much you deserve every bite of this meal and every second with me. As soon as the meal is done, your punishment will be over.” Mycroft brandished the piece of carrot stick once more towards Greg. “Now eat.” Greg offered no more complaint as he gently took the carrot stick between his teeth, sucking it back and chewing efficiently. Mycroft fed him a few more carrot sticks the same way, the only sound their combined breaths and the gentle sound of chewing. Mycroft took a carrot stick for himself and ate it before picking up one half of the sandwich. He took a bite out of it, chewing and swallowing before offering the same edge to Greg. He took a careful bite, watching as Mycroft brought the sandwich to his own mouth to have another bite. About halfway through the sandwich, Greg started shifting, the rice digging deeper into his knees.   
“No moving,” Mycroft snapped, giving a sharp tug on the chain connecting the nipple clamps. Greg whimpered slightly, trying hard to stay still. The sandwich was offered once more to Greg, who took a reluctant bite and chewed quickly.  
“You’re doing so well,” Mycroft praised him as he took a bigger bite from the sandwich. He knew Greg was starting to get near his breaking point and worked to finish up the meal. “You remember your safeword, right?” Greg nodded, swallowing thickly. He could start to feel tears building up behind his eyes, the pressure pushing on his skull. “Use it if you need to.” Mycroft watched Greg, but he gave no indication of wanting to use his safeword. Giving him the sandwich once more, Mycroft watched tears well up in Greg’s eyes.   
“We’ve got about three more bites. We’ll do this together,” Mycroft encouraged Greg. “You are so strong. You can do this.”   
Greg silently took a bite of the sandwich, tears slipping down his cheeks. Mycroft quickly took the second-to-last bite of the sandwich, quickly putting the last bit in Greg’s mouth. Greg chewed and swallowed around soft sobs that were bubbling in his throat.   
When he had finished, Mycroft knelt before Greg. “I’m going to take the clamps off now,” he warned before grabbing them between his fingers and pulling them quickly off. Then, he grabbed Greg by the elbows and hauled him up, pulling him onto the sofa and wrapping him tightly in his arms. “You’re forgiven Greg, you did so well. You are so strong and I am so lucky to have you.” Mycroft held Gregory close as tears streamed slowly out of his closed eyes. Greg didn’t weep this time, just sat as tears washed out of his eyes and down his face. When they cleared Greg pulled slightly away, sitting back on the sofa but allowing Mycroft’s arms to stay wrapped around him.   
“Why the hell would they make anyone go through this?” Greg asked tiredly after a moment. “I felt like shit all day.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I feel like this… experiment has made me more susceptible to emotion. Others aren’t nearly as affected as I am by things.”  
“I disagree. Many people suffer from things like depression and post traumatic stress disorder every day. Seeing something like what you saw today is undoubtedly distressing for anyone. Have the police force scheduled you with a psychologist?”  
“Yeah, they have one coming in tomorrow to talk to a bunch of us.” Greg paused for a moment, resting his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Why do we let them boss us around? The experiment people? It’s not really fair, is it?”  
“Not at all,” Mycroft agreed readily. “But the way I see it, we’re already pretty fucked. They modified us without our consent, yes, but they can’t unmodify us, so unless we figure out some way out of this biology, and trust me, Sherlock is always searching, I’m afraid we’re hooped.”  
“Well yeah, but we could rebel. I’m sure there’s enough of us we could cause a stir.”  
“Yes, but they’ve got roots deep into the government and law enforcement. Hell, it’s how we got our jobs. And I’m always keeping an ear out for rumblings of unpleasant things coming from their side of things. If I ever hear anything too troubling, I will be the first to organize an uprising.”  
“My partner, the rebellion leader,” Greg mused teasingly, picturing Mycroft in a torn undershirt and army slacks. “I could go for it,” he decided.   
“Feeling better?” Mycroft chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of Greg’s head.  
“What do you think?” Greg smirked, laying hand on Mycroft’s thigh and squeezing.  
“I would say yes,” Mycroft replied, a smile stretching across his face. Greg brought his lips to Mycroft’s, sealing them in a passionate kiss. He pulled away for breath.  
“So who has to clean up the rice?”


	9. Couples Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both couple go to mandated couples therapy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, thank you so much for reading! This may the last story in this story, or there may be one more, and then I'll be doing one-shots as serrate stories in the series after that. I'm kind of at a loss at where to go from here, I'm thinking children, but if anyone has something specific they'd like to see, please feel free to comment.
> 
> Please note that the first chunk of Mycroft and Greg's session is straight from the movie Mr. & Mrs. Smith.

“One a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your relationship?”  
“Eight,” Mycroft responded decisively.   
“Wait, ten being perfectly happy and one being totally miserable, or…?” Greg clarified.   
“Just respond instinctively,” Evangeline, their appointed couples therapist prompted.  
“Okay. Ready?” Greg asked Mycroft.   
“Ready.”  
“Eight,” they nodded together.  
“How often do you have sex?”  
Mycroft froze for a moment. “I don’t understand the question.”  
“Is this also on a one to ten scale or…?” Greg asked.   
“Right, because if it is, does “one” equal “not much” or is “one” nothing. Because strictly speaking zero should be nothing.”  
“Exactly. Plus, if we don’t know what one is, what’s ten?”  
“This I not a one to ten scenario,” Evangeline interrupted. “It’s a straight question. How often do you have sex?”  
They both sat looking shocked and scandalized to varying degrees.   
“Do you mean… how often we’ve scened? Or just had straight sex? And isn’t this a little personal?” Greg asked.  
“This is therapy,” Evangeline answered with a raised brow.  
“Mandated therapy,” Mycroft corrected.   
“Yes, but therapy geared towards making sure you are living happy lives both individually and as a couple. So. If you don’t feel comfortable talking about sex, would you feel comfortable talking about scenes?”   
“Everything is going well between us,” Greg responded easily. “Right Mycroft?”  
“Yes, everything is splendid.”  
They both sat and smiled at Evangeline.  
“Any spats? Disagreements that you need to work through?”  
“He leaves his socks on the floor. It’s unbearable,” Mycroft smirked, leaning back.   
“And he doesn’t eat nearly as much as he should,” Greg raised his eyebrows at Mycroft.  
“Why is that?” Evangeline prompted, directing it to Mycroft.  
“I’m a busy man,” Mycroft answered.  
“Is that the only reason you don’t eat, Mr. Holmes?”  
“Yes.”  
“Alright. And you are fulfilling each other’s needs sufficiently?”  
“When we’re both home,” Greg said with a self-deprecating smile tossed towards Mycroft, who answered with a grin of his own. “We’re both very busy men, Evangeline. Nights where we are both home are rarer than we might like.”  
“And how does that make you feel?”   
“It’s fine,” Greg said shrugging.  
“We make do,” Mycroft agreed.   
“And neither one of you ever feels like your partner isn’t giving you enough? Greg, do you ever go into subdrop? Or Mycroft, do you ever get overly antsy?”  
“If we feel ourselves nearing that point, or if we notice it in the other, we make time to take care of each other,” Mycroft answered, Greg nodding along with him.   
“It sounds like you are both in a very good place. And it also looks like our time is up. For our next appointment, please think of a time when you didn’t communicate properly with each other, and how that affected your relationship.”  
“Thank you,” Greg aid, getting up and taking hold of Mycroft’s hand as he stood.  
“Yes, thank you. See you next time,” Mycroft said as they left.  
“Giving us bloody homework like we’re in bloody grade school,” Greg grumbled when they were out of earshot of the therapist. Mycroft chuckled indulgently and pulled Greg toward him, laying a kiss on the top of his head.   
“Well if you’re very good and do you’re homework, I may have a treat for you,” Mycroft murmured in his ear. Greg smiled brightly.  
“Yes, sir.”

“This is pointless,” Sherlock grumbled, crossing his arms. His long lanky form was folded into a plastic chair, and he was sat beside John. They were in the waiting room for their experiment-appointed therapist.   
“Yes, but if we attend once every three months, we get left alone. So we do what we have to,” John reasoned back.   
“Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson,” the therapist, Evan, interrupted them as he came into the room. “Good to see you. If you’d please follow me.” Both men stood and followed the therapist into his office, taking a seat on the sofa that faced the therapist’s chair.   
“How are you both doing today?” he asked them.  
“Good,” John said stiffly.  
“Fine,” Sherlock added.   
“Anything you gentlemen would like to talk about today?”  
“Nope,” Sherlock answered, popping the ‘p’.   
“Everything’s fine between us,” John added.   
“And do you have a job, Sherlock?”  
“I help New Scotland Yard on cases.”  
“And you enjoy doing that?”  
“Very much so.”  
“And how do you feel about Sherlock’s job?” Evan asked, turning to John.  
“I’m happy he’s got something to occupy his time, although I am worried about him when I can’t come on cases.”  
“And how do you deal with that worry?”  
“I text him. And I’ve got the D.I.’s number if I need to call him as well.” John reached over and took Sherlock’s hand.   
“Great. And have you found a job, John?” Evan asked after a pause, seemingly waiting for more.   
“I’m working at a clinic part time,” he told Evan.  
“And how is that going?”  
“Good, keeps us in food and tea so I can’t complain.”  
“How do you feel about John having a job, Sherlock?”  
“It makes him unavailable to me when I need him, so I am not all that fond.”  
John rolled his eyes at the familiar argument.   
“Have you talked about those feelings? It is kind of important that John be there when you need him, is it not?” Evan asked.  
“We have already had this discussion,” John said.  
“Sherlock, do you feel you’ve talked adequately about those feelings?” Evan at up in hi seat, eyes growing more intense.  
Sherlock shrugged. “It is important that John have a job, as he keeps reminding me.”  
“Do you feel his job takes precedence over you?”  
John didn’t like where this was going.   
“Sometimes,” Sherlock admitted.  
“Now, just wait a moment-“ John started, pulling his hand out of Sherlock’s and turning towards his partner. He was interrupted by Evan.  
“Does he neglect you when you need to be put in subspace, Sherlock?”  
There was a deathly silence that lasted a few seconds before Sherlock spluttered.  
“What? No, of course not! John’s not around to help me on cases sometimes.” His brow furrowed. “You thought that John was being a neglectful partner?”  
“That’s what you made it sound like,” John muttered from beside him.   
“Well that’s idiotic. John would never neglect me if I was truly in need.” John, realizing this was as close to an apology as he was going to get in public, took his hand once more.   
“He puts you in subspace often?” Evan double-checked, a hint of annoyance evident in hi eyes.  
“Whenever I ask, and whenever he can tell I need it,” Sherlock confirmed.   
“That’s good to hear. And John, you feel you’re getting everything you need from Sherlock?”  
“Yes,” John replied shortly, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock. “He keeps me on my toes.”  
“How so?”  
“He’s constantly running around expecting me to keep up and placing his toe over the line every day. And I wouldn’t change it for the world.”  
“Well, it sounds like you are both happy.” Evan looked at his watch and a look of relief washed over his face. “That about cover today’ session. I’ll see you next time. You can book an appointment with Nancy out front.”  
They said their farewells and John booked their next appointment with the secretary while Sherlock impatiently tapped his foot. John glared pointedly at the foot for a moment while talking politely with the secretary, squeezing Sherlock’s hand that was still laced with his.   
When he finished up, John dragged Sherlock by the hand out onto the pavement.   
“You’re coming close to a spanking,” John told him quietly. “Did you really not know that you were making it sound like I was abusing you?”  
Sherlock looked abashed. “No, and I truly am sorry for that.” He ducked his head, tapping his forehead gently against John’s. John could see there was true shame in Sherlock’s eyes.  
“Alright, you’re forgiven,” John smiled and pressed their lips together.   
“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured. “Home?”  
“Home.”


	10. Professionally yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John and a bit of how they interact on crime scenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading. I think this will be the last chapter, but as you can see this is now part of a series that will expand! Also, my keyboard has been a bit not good and sometimes keys don't work when I hit them so I tried to catch all of them, but there may be some missing letters. Again,if there's anything you want to see, please let me know. Special shout out to Lily, who gave me the idea for this chapter.

There were few words in the world that John hated hearing come out of Sherlock’s mouth. Most of them were insults, and words that John knew would get his partner in trouble. It was unfortunate for John, then, that he was currently hearing most of that list trip out of Sherlock’s mouth.  
“Idiots!” Sherlock was stalking around the perimeter of a crime scene, careful not to disturb evidence even in his rage. “You’ve trampled all over the evidence. Does Scotland Yard purposefully hire negligent imbeciles to muddy up their crime scenes?”   
They were in a small one-level house, all crammed into the small sitting room that had been cordoned off with crime scene tape. The body was a male, surrounded by a pool of blood. There was also blood splattered up one of the bare white walls.  
Stopping his frantic pacing, Sherlock let out a roar of frustration. He flung his arm towards one technician who was taking pictures of the crime scene. “Look at this one. He is kneeling in that blood. KNEELING. In. It. Who the hell let him on here?”   
“That would be me,” D.I. Nolan said with his arms crossed, coming up beside Sherlock.   
“Well then it’s a miracle that you are a D.I. if you let morons on crime scenes.”   
John, who had been standing on the other side of the room examining the body, had started making his way to Sherlock when he had started his tantrum. He reached Sherlock and crossed his arms, a mirror image of the D.I.   
“Well, I let you on the scene, so unless you’re calling yourself an idiot…”  
Although John was eternally grateful that they had allied themselves with a smart, tolerant D.I., he didn’t particularly enjoy when the D.I. and Sherlock went head to head. Sherlock drew himself up and John could tell things were going to get ugly quickly.  
“Sherlock, stop,” John said quietly.  
“I will not stop, this is ridiculous!”  
“Could we have a moment?” John asked the D.I.  
“Quickly. I’m not above removing you from the case,” he said warningly.   
“Sherlock, you need to calm down,” John said once the D.I. was out of earshot.   
“I will not calm down until idiots get off this crime scene!”   
John recoiled. Sherlock rarely yelled at him in seriousness. He often shouted when he was bored or frustrated, but rarely out of anger and never directly at John. Thinking back, John realized that he hadn’t put Sherlock properly into subspace in at least a month. Between his job at the clinic and the non-stop cases, he had forgotten.   
“Look Sherlock, you need to be put into subspace. I’m sorry that I’ve forgotten, but it’s been a month and I’m afraid you’re going to drop here.”  
“I do not need your help and I do not need to be put into ‘space,” Sherlock hissed at John.  
“Look, we can deal with this right here if you want. I have no trouble bending you over my knee and spanking you right now. That’s what you’re gearing for if you don’t smarten up.”  
“You will not punish me at my job,” Sherlock hissed back. “This is my professional workplace.”  
“You are right,” John said, a glint in his eye, “but I will not hesitate to take care of you the second this case is over and we are home.”  
Sherlock, recognizing the warning glint in John’s eye, nodded curtly and twirled away.  
“This is clearly a robbery gone wrong.”  
“How do you figure that?” the D.I. asked, pulling level with Sherlock.   
“The curtains, the picture frame, his sleeve, the hair on his shoulder that isn’t his, the footprint outside the window. Do I need to continue?”  
“You can’t know that just from those,” the camera technician, a man in his mid-twenties, scoffed from his position beside the body.   
“Oh, but I do, just as I know that you don’t wash your hands after using the washroom.”  
“I always wash my hands!”  
“No you don’t!” Sherlock practically shrieked, pointing once more at the technician. The technician turned red and stood swiftly, hanging his camera around his neck.   
“That’s not true!” He stalked swiftly over to Sherlock and, before John could react, punched him in the nose.  
Sherlock reeled back with a shout, grabbing his nose. John immediately saw red.   
“Hey!” he shouted, rushing the technician and swinging at his head. “You do NOT hit him!” John shouted as the technician fell to the ground, dazed by John’s punch t the side of his head.   
“What the bloody hell?” a familiar voice came from the doorway. John turned and saw Greg and another constable standing in the doorway.   
“Ah constables, welcome to the crime scene. Could one of you please escort Mr. Horath off of the crime scene please?”  
“What?” he exclaimed, outraged.   
“Although Sherlock is obnoxious, he is not wrong. You were tramping all over the crime scene and did kneel in the blood. You are dismissed.” The constable with Greg escorted the complaining tech off of the crime scene. Meanwhile, John had approached Sherlock with a tissue he had pulled out of his pocket.  
“Here,” he said handing it to Sherlock, who placed it gratefully against his bleeding nose.   
“What the bloody hell happened?” Greg reiterated as he approached them.   
“Sherlock insulted the technician, prompting him to punch Sherlock in the nose.”  
“And who hit the technician?”  
“That would be me,” John admitted, a touch embarrassed. Greg noticed an underlying tension in the set of John’s shoulders and could tell he was not happy with Sherlock.   
“Ah.” Greg pulled Sherlock away from John by the arm. “Sherlock mate, what’s up?” He got no response. “Look, we both know that you live for John and these cases and if you bollocks it up you will lose both, yeah?”  
Sherlock pulled out of Greg’s grip. “Do not tell me what to do.”  
Greg could recognize a sub on the brink of subdrop. “Lad, from one sub to another, I know you are not thinking rationally right now-“  
“I am always rational,” Sherlock interrupted, his ire ruined by the tissue he was still holding to his nose.  
“-but you need to toe the line if you don’t want to be kicked off this case.” Greg continued as if Sherlock hadn’t interrupted him. “Just think, you be good, finish this case, and John will put you down nice and easy.” Sherlock, despite himself, did like the sound of that.   
“As I said, D.I. Nolan, a robbery gone wrong,” Sherlock said after a moment, stalking back towards John and the D.I. with Greg trailing behind him. “You’ll find the robber’s hair on the victim’s shoulder, and a piece of the attacker’s skin on his sleeve. He was wearing gloves when he came in, which is why there are no defensive marks on his hands. The robber tidied up after robbing the place, but there are scuffs in the dust marks where he put the frame back in place. I don’t think I’m needed here anymore.”   
The D.I. nodded, simultaneously happy that the case was solved and that Sherlock and John would be going home to deal with whatever the hell it was they had to deal with. “Okay, we’ll take a look and let you know.”  
“Thank you,” John said, taking Sherlock’s hand and leading him outside. On their way out they watched a black car pull up in front of the house and saw Mycroft step out of the car.   
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock tried to sneer as they approached him.   
“Brother, lovely to see you too. It appears that the documents that were stolen from the victim are of a sensitive nature. The government has sent me to take over the investigation.”  
“Well it’s a good thing I’ve already solved it, then,” Sherlock groused from behind the steadily reddening tissue.  
“Yes, well you didn’t figure out what was stolen, now did you?”   
“Alright, that’s enough, stop provoking him,” John said, hailing a cab for the two of them.   
“I must get inside. Have a good evening John, Sherlock.” With that, Mycroft stalked past them and into the house, bypassing the crime scene tape and the constable stationed there.  
“Oi, you can’t go in there!” the constable cried from behind him. Everyone in the sitting room turned to look at Mycroft as he entered.   
“What are you doing here?” Greg blurted, brow furrowing as he laid eyes on Mycroft.  
“Hello Constable Lestrade, D.I. Nolan. I am here to inform you that the government will be taking over the case and your assistance is no longer necessary.”  
“Good thing we’ve solved it, then,” D.I. Nolan answered, eyeing Mycroft up. Mycroft smirked at the mirroring of his brother and the D.I.’s words.   
“Yes, well as I pointed out to my brother, you have not discerned what was stolen and in fact what has been stolen is sensitive to the government, so I will thank you to remove yourselves and your team from the scene.”  
“Sorry, your brother?”  
Greg decided to bite the bullet. “Yeah, this is Mycroft Holmes, brother of Sherlock Holmes. He is also my partner.”  
“Wait, this is the Mycroft I’ve heard so little about?” the D.I. appraised him once more, this time for a different reason. Obviously seeing something he liked, he nodded. “Yeah, I see it. Alright, Mr. British Government, we’ll give this one to you. But don’t expect me to hand over all my cases.” Pointing at Mycroft for a second, he walked away to round up his constables.   
Mycroft and Greg stood in awkward silence for a moment. “So, you’ll probably be in late tonight then, hey?” Greg asked.  
“So it would seem,” Mycroft sighed. “When this is all over, would you be amenable to a date night?”   
The couple had implemented date nights when they both found that they were too busy to consistently see each other romantically. Although they both usually ended up in the same bed for at least an hour each night, they had gone through day- or week- patches of not seeing or interacting with each other in the past. Therefore, they made a policy to implement date nights when one or both was feeling the need to see the other.   
“I would love a date night,” Greg admitted.  
“Good, then I will see you when next I see you. Have a good evening.”  
“Yeah, you too. Bye.” Greg joined the D.I. as he was exiting the building, pulling the yellow tape down as he passed.   
“All sorted?” the D.I. asked.  
“There wasn’t much to sort, sir.”   
“I’ll give you a ride back to the station since Constable Peters took Horath back to NSY.”  
“Okay.” Greg got in on the passenger side of the car as the D.I. got in on the other side and started the car.   
“So Sherlock is your brother-in-law, then?”  
“Well, Mycroft and I aren’t married, sir, but he is my partner’s brother, yes.”  
“And you never felt the need to tell me?”  
“It never came up, sir. I wasn’t ever on a case with him, so I didn’t think it was important.”  
“Well next time let me know if you’re related to anyone on the case.” There was no sting to the D.I.’s words.   
“Yes, sir.” Greg knew there was no point reminding him they weren’t technically related. 

Meanwhile, John was glaring pointedly at Sherlock in the back of a cab.   
“John, I think my nose is broken.”  
“Yeah, I’d say you’re probably right,” John answered coldly. They lapsed into silence.  
“Can you look at it?” Sherlock asked quietly. He knew he was in trouble.  
“When we get home,” John answered. He knew Sherlock wasn’t in immediate danger.   
“Okay.” They rode for another ten minutes until they pulled up to their flat.   
“Go on up, wait for me on the sofa,” John ordered, pulling out his wallet and handing the cabbie the required fare. Then he got out, following Sherlock’s footsteps and entering their flat, spotting the detective waiting for him on the sofa, tissue soaked through with blood.   
“So, what do you have to say for yourself?” John asked as he removed his jacket, hung it and moved to the bathroom to get their first-aid kit.   
“Thank you for respecting me at my place of work?”  
“That’s a good start,” John said as he re-entered the room carrying the first-aid kit and sat on the coffee table, facing Sherlock. “And you’re welcome. As we agreed, professional lives stay distinctly separate from our personal lives. Anything about your attitude?” John gently removed the tissue from Sherlock’s hand, placing it beside him on the coffee table. His nose had stopped bleeding.  
“I had every right to be angry at that idiot,” Sherlock said, venom creeping into his voice.  
“Yes, but you didn’t need to react the way you did.” John gently felt Sherlock’s nose, feeling for breaks. “That’s broken,” he confirmed, turning and digging an ice pack out of the first aid kit. “Here,” he handed it to Sherlock. “How could you have handled the situation differently?” If Sherlock was going to act like a child, he would be treated like one. Although John was still annoyed at him and his behavior, treating his broken nose had helped calm John somewhat.   
“I could have punched him first.” At John’s disapproving look, Sherlock blushed. “Sorry. I could have told the D.I. what the imbecile was doing, ask that he be removed from the crime scene.”  
“That’s good, Sherlock, very smart.” John reached forward and ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair gently. “Now, I’m not really angry with you anymore, and although I should punish you, I think being punched is the nose is probably enough this time. Now, I’m going to put you into ‘space because you are getting dangerously close to drop and don’t tell me otherwise. I am sorry about not noticing sooner, love.”  
“We’re both learning,” Sherlock said, eyes already half-lidded. “But I don’t need to go under.”  
“Sherlock, I can promise you, you do.”  
“No,” Sherlock pulled away, looking ridiculous with the big white ice pack pressed gingerly against his nose.   
“Sherlock, I respected you at the crime scene, please respect me in this.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John.  
“But I need to file this case into my Mind Palace.”  
“Can it not wait until tomorrow? Why don’t you want to go down?”  
“It’s not that I don’t want to go down, t’s that I have more important things to do.” Sherlock was avoiding eye contact with John, looking pointedly at the floor.  
“Such as?” John could feel the annoyance start to build back up behind his eyes.  
“I don’t know, anything really.”  
“Really, so you don’t think your mental and emotional health are important? Is that what you’re saying?”  
“No, of course they are important. I just feel… vulnerable.” Sherlock’s voice had gone very small, which didn’t sit well with John.  
“Vulnerable… you don’t trust me? Is it something I’ve done?”  
“No! Of course not!” Sherlock hastened to reply. “I trust you indefinitely. It’s just a sort of knee-jerk reaction I have from a childhood of bullying. I’m sorry, let’s get on with it.”  
“Are you sure?” Sherlock nodded, grabbing John’s hand and threading it once more through his hair. “Alright, but we will talk about this eventually. Even though we both hate talking about feelings.” Sherlock hummed and closed his eyes, some of the tension immediately falling from his shoulders as he surrendered. “You are so good, you know that right?” When no answer was forthcoming, John tugged gently at Sherlock’s curls. “Answer me.”  
“Yes, John,” Sherlock answered blurrily.   
“And I am so lucky that you agreed to give this relationship lark a try with me. I love you so much.” John was gently carding his hand through Sherlock’s curls. “I’m going to give you a massage, okay?” Sherlock hummed his assent, already slipping into a non-verbal state. John slid behind Sherlock on the sofa, gently running his hands down his neck before digging his thumbs into the meaty part right below it. He made a slow progress down Sherlock’s back, careful to touch every inch of t and to make sure very knot in Sherlock’s back got proper attention. While he was doing that, he was murmuring constant praise and affection into Sherlock’s ear, reminding him how special and loved he was.   
Soon, Sherlock was floating happily in subspace, on the verge of falling asleep.  
“Okay love, I think it’s time for cuddles in bed.” John gently took the ice pack out of Sherlock’s hand and scooped him up, carrying him to his bedroom and depositing him on the bed. “How’s your nose?”  
“Sore,” Sherlock mumbled. John could tell it was still a little swollen, and Sherlock would have spectacular bruising around it the next day, but he figured he was alright leaving it for the night. Placing the ice pack on the bedside table, John spooned up next to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him, holding him close and carding his hand through Sherlock’s curls as he fell asleep.  
“Love you, John,” Sherlock murmured as he drifted off to sleep.  
“Love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, kudos and comment at your leisure, I love it!!


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